I wouldn’t bother answering even if I could speak. I hope my eyes convey my loathing.
“We were able to put his fears to rest. Seems you were coaxed away to join the traveling musicians as they moved on. Took the opportunity to quit your debt bondage, to set aside the period of service you owe us and run for the hills, so to speak. They say you’re a singer. Full of surprises, aren’t you? Turn around!” Suddenly he’s rapping out orders. “Why are you standing there? Show me your hands!”
I stay where I am, holding his gaze with my own. He moves, lightning quick, his fist connecting hard with my jaw. My head crashes into the wire, setting the birds flapping wildly again. I almost fall; my ankles are still bound together.
“Ah. Trying to break free, were we? But lacking in strength, or you’d surely be out and away by now. Ultán! Bring the rope.”
This time they tie me with my back against the wire. For a reason I can’t fathom, but which I’m glad of, they change the tight ankle bindings to more of a hobble arrangement. I don’t interpret this as an act of mercy; Seanan wouldn’t understand the term. Most likely it’s so they can move me without needing to carry me. Where? And why? Would Dau really believe I’d run off with the musicians and leave him behind?
The two men light a fire on the hearth, then clank around with metal objects, talking to each other in murmurs. I do not like the way this is shaping up. I don’t like it at all. I try to summon the wisdom of Archu. I imagine him in my situation. He’d have a solution, I’m sure of it. Maybe all he’d say is, Be ready for your opportunity. Don’t die because of a moment’s inattention.
I can’t see them now, but I hear everything. They open a door further along the cage and drag a creature out. They must be wearing gauntlets or their hands would be pecked raw. Ah. Maybe that mask is not so much a disguise as a protection. Maybe Seanan’s not doing any of his own dirty work. Apart from giving himself the satisfaction of hitting me, that is. Or maybe the big man does the catching and holding, and Master Seanan does the . . . whatever comes next. Morrigan save me. First the Crow Folk and then me. That’s the plan. I will not wet myself. I will not make a sound. Not even the small sound a person might make through a tight gag if she was scared out of her wits. I will not shiver. I will show not the least sign of fear. I’ll snatch that opportunity. When it comes, I’ll be ready.
The bird fights. It shrieks. The sounds curdle my blood. Ultán curses a few times, but I don’t hear Seanan speak now. I imagine his face, cold and focused, as he wields the instruments of torture with precision. I consider what I saw through that door, the direction of the light, the dimensions of this chamber, which may be the entire building. I think about the nature of what Seanan has here and why he might want to separate this establishment somewhat from the place where, in all but name, he is chieftain. I wonder what Sárnait would think if she could see this and am glad she does not need to. I’m almost sure I know where I am.
At one point, as I stand with my arms already aching and my heart thumping, listening as the sounds go on and on, there’s a sort of lull, then a different sound. A heavy knock, as of an iron poker against boards. A brief muttered conversation between the men. Then the vile stench that is part of this place, the stink of rotting fish, the odor of an herb I can’t quite name and others I know all too well, gains another component—the smell of burning flesh. The creature’s scream is terrible. It wrenches at my gut, it hurts my heart, it fills my eyes with tears. Then, abruptly, it stops. In the sudden quiet I can hear my own breathing. The door to the cage clangs open; there’s a thud as something is tossed in, and the door closes again. The other birds are silent.
Seanan’s tone is so courteous he might be inviting me to dance. “Now your turn,” he says.
37
DAU
It’s night and there’s still no news. Torcan asks me if I need my sleeping draft—he knows our routine from the stables—and I tell him there would be no point. Nothing could bring me sleep tonight. My mind brims with waking nightmares. When I’ve picked at the supper Torcan fetched for us, I tell him to go and sleep on Corb’s pallet. There’s no need for both of us to keep vigil. He’s reluctant but obeys, saying I should wake him if I need him, even if it’s just to talk. He’s a good man.
I can’t keep still. I sit before the fire, I rise and pace around, I lie down on my bed only to get up and pace again. Once or twice I forget where I am and blunder into something, cursing myself. If Torcan’s managing to sleep, it’s a miracle. Gods! She’s out there somewhere, I know it. Out there waiting for someone to find her. Waiting in the dark.
“Lie down awhile, Dau,” Torcan says from the antechamber; the door between us is ajar. “You may not sleep, but at least you can rest. Save your strength for tomorrow.”
“Another day of useless waiting.” We’ve searched everywhere. We’ve spoken to anyone likely to be useful. I can’t believe the theory that she left with the musicians, even though, to someone who doesn’t know us, that sounds plausible. I’m sure the musicians would have liked her to join them; any band would. I can’t believe she would go back to Swan Island, only a few moons into her year of debt bondage. Nor would she head for Dalriada and her family home, where she could be easily tracked down. She wouldn’t leave without explanation, without good-byes. She simply wouldn’t do it.
Torcan has banked up the fire so it will keep us warm into the night. I sit before it again, on the floor with my knees drawn up, and pretend I can see the comforting glow. My whole body is sick with tension, chill with fear, filled with a restless urge for action. But I can’t act. It’s night. I’m blind. The next step would be a search beyond the walls—in the local village, at St. Padraig’s, perhaps out to the nearest farms—and if Seanan has anything to do with it I won’t be allowed through that gate, with or without a minder. And even if I am, how likely are we to find her? If someone has taken her they must have done so covertly. Even so, surely at least one member of the household saw something. Sadly, that doesn’t mean the person in question will be brave enough to speak up. Not if Seanan’s involved.
Perhaps I should ask to see my father in the morning. Confront him with the truth. But he’s never believed me before, so why would he do so now? He’d be infuriated that she’s gone and all too ready to believe she’s absconded. He doesn’t know her. He doesn’t know me. He hasn’t asked to speak to me even once since the day I came here. And even if he did, is he in any fit state to help?
If I find her, if she’s all right, I will talk to Master Beanón. I will ask him about Father’s state of health and about sleeping drafts. I will ask to speak to Father with Beanón present. Naithí as well. I will . . .
I lie down on the bed again. Beyond the shuttered window I can hear a night bird singing. Liobhan, I think. Be safe. Hold on, wherever you are, dearest friend. And it comes to me that if ever we needed help from the Otherworld, if ever we needed magic, it is now.
38
LIOBHAN
They’re gone. It’s over. For now it’s over.
I assess the damage as well as I can. Not easy, as they’ve left me facing the cage with my wrists tied up above my head. My feet are squarely on the floor, and I thank the gods for that bit of good fortune. The bad fortune is that my hands are tied to a wire door, and if I surrender to sleep or faint or lose my balance, the weight of my fall will open that door and release one of the Crow Folk. A cunning arrangement. The creature can’t peck out my eyes right now; there’s double mesh all down the area where I stand. But once the door’s open the thing is free, and it’s just waiting, moving along its perch and back again, its eyes never leaving me. Outside, the last light is nearly gone. The window shutters weren’t fully closed when Seanan and his henchman left; a lucky oversight. If I can take advantage of that I will. But all’s quiet out there save for the sounds of birds heading for their roosting places. Nobody’s rushing to the rescue.
Right. Wrists chaf
ed, but not bleeding. Shoulders already aching, and there’s the night to get through in this wretched position. Then there’s the mark he made on me, a brand, burned onto the flesh of my right arm. Hurt like shit when he did it, but I’m pleased I didn’t give him the satisfaction of screaming, even though the gag was off at the time. I didn’t make a sound as he pelted me with questions, not the ones I might have expected, but questions about who spoke to Lord Ross, who spoke to Cormac, who spoke to Sárnait. And accusations about how I might have influenced Dau. I didn’t say a word. I’ll have a fine crop of bruises to show for my silence. Thank the gods for Swan Island. Without the training, I’d never have got through it.
The burn hurts like hellfire. Needs a cool poultice; could be Seanan has the required components for that on his workbench over there, though more likely he doesn’t. I’d lay a bet that everything he’s collected is for the purpose of hurting, not healing. No prizes for guessing where the missing devil’s-foot went or who took it. Not Seanan in person, I bet—he’s too clever for anything so obvious. He’ll have sent his man to steal it for him.
Worse than the burning was what they did after. Offered me water. Not to put on the burn. To drink. I was so thirsty, my throat on fire, my whole body protesting what they’d done to me. I drank without thinking, from the cup Ultán held out. It wasn’t water. It was a concoction of some kind. I spat out what was in my mouth, spraying it everywhere. Seanan hit me. Then he made his underling grab my hair and pull my head back, and he forced my mouth open and poured the rest of the stuff in. Then clapped his hand over my nose and mouth until I swallowed it. I fought, as much as a person can with hands and feet tied. I bit him at least once. But the stuff went down, and now my head is getting fuzzy and my knees are weak and I’ll have to use every trick I can think of to stay awake. All night. I have to last all night.
Can’t scream. The gag’s back on tight. Can’t sing to pass the time. Not out loud anyway. But I do know a lot of songs and stories. I can go through them in my mind. Pity my head feels so odd. Gods, I hope I haven’t taken devil’s-foot. Seanan’s no herbalist; if he had expertise in that craft the monks would know about it. I wouldn’t trust any remedy that man put together. Why in the name of the gods does he have Crow Folk in here? They’re an enemy of humankind, yes, and we know he traps them. But keeping them captive here, hurting them, terrifying them—there’s no point in that.
Dau must be frantic. I hope Seanan didn’t hurt the dog. That would be enough to break Dau, strong as he is now. At least the dog’s not in here, another victim waiting for the slice of the knife, the rough kiss of hot iron. Maybe that burn on my arm is meant to be a brand. A mark of ownership. You think you can own me, Master Seanan? Not in your wildest dreams.
I run through songs in my mind, line by line, verse by verse. The war song with its rallying chorus: To arms! To arms! The song about the woman who lifts up her skirt, a ditty composed by my brother Brocc. The one about the fisherman and the seal woman. “The Farewell,” with its bittersweet ending. I cry a little as I think my way through the verses. Only I mustn’t cry, because my nose gets blocked and with the gag in my mouth I can’t breathe, and if I can’t breathe I’ll faint, and then . . . Wake up, Liobhan, you stupid fool!
I think my way through some of the whistle tunes, imagining different ways of doing the ornamentation. Wondering if I might play “Artagan’s Leap” just a little quicker, or whether that would tip exciting over into ridiculous. I hope Dau can look after my things. The skirt made for me by the washerwomen in Breifne, with its brave stripes. The whistles I brought with me.
It’s dark now. I can’t rub through these bonds on the wire; that might open the door and let the creature out. Wish I had Brocc’s uncanny magic. Wish I could somehow let the thing know I’m not like Seanan and his helper. I don’t mean it any harm. I’d set it free if I could be sure it wouldn’t kill me the moment it left the cage.
I tell myself a story: the one about Davan’s encounter with the clurichauns, and how they mended his lame leg out of kindness. That story got Dau thinking about magical cures. The story led me to agree, despite all my misgivings, that I’d go to the Otherworld with him once my debt bondage is over. The way things are right now, I can’t see that happening. There’s only one possible ending Seanan can have in mind for this unsavory episode, and that most certainly isn’t me going back to his father’s house and getting quietly on with my life of servitude. For that to happen, Dau would have to agree not to speak up about this. That’s not possible. Seanan will use me as a weapon against Dau for as long as he can, then kill me and make my body disappear. What a depth of hatred he must hold for his youngest brother. Hatred that’s surely tipped over into madness.
I tell myself a story from ancient times, about a god with a silver hand. I tell myself a tale about cattle raids, about warring chieftains, about kings and queens of old. Somewhere in the middle of it my concentration fails, I sag against my restraints, then jerk upright as the cage door creaks. It’s opening—no! I slam my hands against the wire, sending a wave of pain through my burned arm. The bird is lifting its wings to fly out as the door crashes shut. It utters a cry so desperate, so furious, that tears come to my eyes again. Mustn’t cry. Must keep breathing. Must stay awake . . . but it’s hard. My head feels heavy, my thoughts are wandering, and I’m cold . . . Isn’t it nearly summer now? Why is it so cold?
The fire’s long ago dwindled to ash. I have neither shawl nor cloak. I’m in my working gown and the right sleeve has been cut to tatters. I must have wet myself at some point; my skirt feels clammy. Can’t smell that, though. The stench of this place is so bad, you could throw a bucket of piss over it and it’d make no difference. I hear Dau’s voice in my mind. Only you could make a joke out of the current situation, Liobhan. Where do you find that relentless hope?
I wish Dau was here. Only I don’t, because that would put him right in Seanan’s way. I imagine the two of us, Dau and me, walking out of here and, instead of going back to face his brothers and his father and the whole intolerable situation in that establishment, going the other way, along the forest’s edge and then in under the cover of the trees to walk along the weaving pathways until we found a portal to Eirne’s realm. I think of seeing my brother again. I think of Eirne knowing how to restore Dau’s sight and being prepared to do so. What price would she set on that? Would it be more than I could pay?
My legs are going numb. I can move my feet, though they’re hobbled as if I’m a troublesome horse that has to be kept from bolting. Not so terribly far from the truth. Give me the means to get these restraints off and I’ll bolt all right. I’ll be out of here and away as fast as my wretched body will let me. The windows may be barred with iron, but surely that door will give under enough pressure. Where will I run? Every choice has its problems. Back, I suppose. Because the one thing I know is that I won’t leave Dau. One way or another, his fate and mine are tied together now. I move my feet up and down, a ghastly sort of march that gets me nowhere. To arms! To arms! I flex my feet, I bend them, anything to keep myself upright.
Is it nearly morning? Hah! The night has barely begun, you foolish woman. Come on, another story . . . There was once a man . . . no, a bird . . . perhaps a whole flock of birds . . . and they found themselves suddenly in an unfamiliar place . . . perhaps by magic . . . a mage had cast a spell . . . or maybe a wisewoman . . . and then . . .
Shit! I push the wire door shut again, just in time. One good thing about that, it wakes me up. It’s as if someone stuck a blunt knife through my arm, hard, and then twisted it around. A pox on Seanan! How could I let the two of them do what they did? Why didn’t I fight harder? I should have been more than a match for them. Archu would be ashamed of me . . .
I tell myself a story about Archu’s fur cloak and how he first came by it when he was challenged to a wrestling match with one of those Norse warriors known as Wolfskins. I imagine a gathering of folk around a roaring fire
in some cold land, even colder than this place, all of them laughing and quaffing ale, and a younger Archu accepting the challenge to shouts of approval, and the bout with a fierce-eyed warrior wearing a necklace of wolves’ teeth and a grin to strike fear into the boldest of opponents. None of it’s true, but never mind that. When it’s done I can’t think of another story. My head is swimming. I was stupid to think I could last the night out. The worst bit is the gag. Along with the stink it makes me want to vomit, and I know what the result will be if I let that happen.
I think of home. The cottage at Winterfalls, the woodland, the mysterious pool. My mother’s stillroom, her capable hands busy chopping and grinding and measuring, her sharp features, her perceptive gaze. My father’s garden, and him by my side, showing me the best way to harvest carrots. A giant with the gentlest manner. A guide and guardian. No scholar, but wise beyond scholarship. I wish they were here. But no, I would not wish this on anyone, least of all those I love. I must find my own way out. I will find it . . . soon, really soon . . . but now I must shut my eyes, just for a moment . . .
I’m falling. The wire door crashes down, there’s a startled sound from within the cage, then something flies across my face, not the captive bird but something far smaller. Abruptly I’m awake, I’m up, I’m slamming the door shut, my heart going like a war drum. Shit! How could I let it happen again? And what was that—?
It’s on my hand, up by the wire. I can’t see it, but I can feel its tiny claws on my fingers. I can hear its little cheeping voice. It’s a bird all right, but about the size of a mouse. It must have come in through the gap in the shutters. Don’t panic and fly into the cage, little one, I will it. It could easily happen. It’s small enough to fit through the mesh. Why in the name of the gods—?
A Dance with Fate Page 33