The tiny bird flies up to perch on my head. There it settles as if waiting. And I understand. At least, I hope I do. The small visitor hasn’t flown in here by accident. What just happened wasn’t an accident either. It saw danger and saved me. It’s one of those birds we encountered in Breifne. It may even be the same one I sang to in a tree during those first hard days at Oakhill. It can take a message to Brocc. But how on earth do I tell it what I need to say? I have no idea how Eirne communicates with them. They went between her realm and the court of Breifne, they visited the druids, they must have been able to understand somehow. A pox on this gag! I can’t talk. I can’t sing. I bet if Brocc sang they’d know what he meant.
The bird moves up my arm to my bound wrist. It applies its miniature beak to the strips of tightly knotted cloth. A losing battle, I think. And I wonder if I’m dreaming this whole thing. The story is far stranger than most of those I’ve been telling myself as this endless night wore on. A woman tortured, trussed up, drugged, trapped. Saved by a bird smaller than a finch. Nobody would believe it. I blame Seanan’s potion.
My right hand is free. A ghastly wave of pain goes through my arm as it drops down; I make a muffled sound through the gag. The bird hops over to the left and starts to work again. And that arm, too, is free. Oh, gods, I can’t believe it. Undo the gag next. Oh, please. There’s no way I can do it myself; my arms are in agony, my fingers are beyond dealing with knots.
Ouch! What is it doing now? Instead of loosening the gag or the hobbles, it’s back on my head, pulling out my hair. Stop it! I try to say, but all that comes out is a grunt that could mean anything. Stop! It hurts! Because this feels like the last straw, the last little thing that will break me. A friend, a savior at last, and then it turns on me. I can’t stand up any longer. My belly is queasy, my legs are like jelly. I collapse to the ground with the small one still busy in my hair. As I force my aching arms up to swat the creature off, there’s a scuffle and scream from the cage next door. In a whirr of wingbeats, the little bird is away. A rustle and click as it makes its escape between the shutters, then silence.
I should try to get the gag off. I should try to untie my ankles. I should break the door down, I should run . . . But my arms are on fire, my head is swimming, all I want is to sleep . . . I curl up and give way to the dark.
39
EIRNE
The queen lies awake in her retreat. It is night; a lamp shaped like a hedgehog glows faintly in a corner, casting warm light over the leafy walls, the soft bed with its silken coverlet, and the sleeping form of her husband, his dark curls falling over his brow, his face at peace, his arm warm against hers. She has been watching him, allowing herself to dream of a brighter future, daring to hope. She has not given him her news yet, but she must do so soon. Her bard is saddened by the loss of his voice. He must feel guilty. And when she tells him, he will feel still more guilty. Brocc will have no voice to sing his child a lullaby. Not until that child is a few moons old—Eirne is not quite sure when it will be born, and although Moon-Fleet is a healer, her knowledge does not extend to the birth of a half-human babe. Perhaps it will be born on the night the year turns to the dark. The queen hesitates to ask questions of her scrying bowl. The answers might be too hard to bear.
She will sing to the little one herself, and her bard can play his harp. He has put them at risk, yes, for his voice is their only real protection against the Crow Folk. For a year, a whole year, her folk must keep the threat at bay without the weapon of song. She was wise to have the young bird killed, when Brocc brought it home in a moment of madness. What did he think, that such a wild creature might become some kind of pet to be stroked and admired and paraded about? A wise person does not invite the enemy into his house. But her bard is softhearted in nature; it is one of the things she loves about him. The human part of her delights in his kindness. The fey part reminds her that she is a queen and must be strong. She is responsible for the welfare of her people. She reminds herself, as she strokes Brocc’s hair gently away from his eyes, that this is not forever. A year. They must keep everyone safe for a year. Before that year is up, her child will be born, so small, so precious. So helpless.
Eirne lies back, her head on her husband’s shoulder. He murmurs something in his sleep, and she whispers, “Lie still, dearest. All will be well.”
Tomorrow. Tomorrow she will tell him about the baby. And she will confess to ordering the killing of the thing he rescued. A queen should tell the truth.
As she closes her eyes to sleep, there is a rustling in the curtain of vines and creepers that forms the walls of this place, and a messenger flies in. Eirne is well attuned to these creatures, tiny birds in outward shape, but in truth far more than birds. She sits up, careful not to disturb Brocc. She reaches out a hand and the small one alights on her finger. What is that in its beak? Strands of hair?
The messenger drops its burden onto her open palm, and yes, it is indeed hair. Three strands, long, with a slight wave. The lantern light is dim, but Eirne sees the bright red-gold of it and knows from whose head it was plucked.
The tiny birds do not cheep and chirp out their messages. Theirs is a more subtle communication. While they touch Eirne, while they perch on her, she knows their thoughts and understands what they want to convey. Thus she can send them forth to gather information and they can bring messages back to her. This little one, with its plumage of sky blue and blood red, she did not send. Either it has come of its own free will, or someone else has sent it.
What? she asks. What is wrong? Perhaps the message is for her husband. That is his sister’s hair. But she does not wake him.
In the bird’s mind there is an image: the forest’s edge, on the eastern side, and a ramshackle hut shielded by a copse of trees. With the bird she flies closer. It is night. The moon is a dim presence behind clouds. But the small one can see as it peeps through the shutters. It can see as it flies in, as it lands on Liobhan’s shoulder, as it works on her bonds and as it flinches when, through the wire, a fearsome knife-beaked presence looms, sudden and dark. Eirne sees what the bird saw—a woman tied up, exhausted, helpless. A dark place full of horrors. She feels Liobhan shrink away as the small one plucks these hairs from her head. She knows the moment when the caged monsters flap and scream anew, and the bird takes flight once more, out of that house of pain and away to the forest.
There is no misinterpreting this message. If it were set out with pen and ink, it would read HELP. Where is the place? Eirne asks in silence. How far? Show me. By her side, Brocc stirs in his sleep, rolls over, and is quiet once more.
The bird shows her. East to the forest’s edge, near the spot where Brocc laid one of the Crow Folk to rest and sang a song. It is the area where his patrols with Rowan and True most likely cross the border between her realm and the human world more often than Brocc would ever admit. From there, north to a place near a settlement of humankind, a chieftain’s walled domain, a village, orderly fields. And on the near side of this habitation but at some distance from it, the crumbling building that houses those prisoners. The place where Brocc’s sister, the woman who did not want him to stay with Eirne, is now trussed up and helpless. Why would she be there? It is far from that island where she and Brocc trained as warriors and spies.
A quick flight for a bird. The position of the moon in those images shows this little one flew both ways within an hour or so. How long for those who walk on the ground? She could wake Brocc, although it is night. She could tell him what she has learned. Then he would race off to save his sister and most likely take Rowan with him, and who knows when he would return? She missed him so badly when he and True were on their journey. She worried about him every day. Her bed was lonely. The evenings were joyless without his music. And there was the constant knowledge that if the Crow Folk attacked, she and the others would be vulnerable. Her own magic is useless against them, and her people are few. Without their warriors, they could not stand lon
g against that enemy.
Frowning, Eirne twists the hairs between her fingers and makes a little ring. Liobhan is a fighter, isn’t she? Brave, strong, able to solve her own problems. Their own need is far greater; the future of her realm depends on it. Besides, if she must bid Brocc farewell again so soon, her heart will break. What if he never came back?
She slips the ring of bright hair under her pillow, lies down, and soon falls asleep.
40
DAU
Dau! Wake up!”
I sit up, my heart thudding. Someone’s shaking me by the shoulder. That urgent voice was not Torcan’s.
“Corb? What’s happened?” I struggle out of bed. Where are my clothes? “Have you found her? Is she all right?”
“Here.” Torcan passes me my smallclothes, my shirt, my trousers. “It’s still night, Dau, so we’d best keep things quiet.”
“Corb, tell me!”
“I left the farm in the dark,” Corb says. “Wanted to be back early. Came by a shortcut, past that old building with trees around it, used to be a farm shed. And I heard something. Not a voice, just a scrabbling sound, but it was coming from inside, and it’s years since anyone housed animals there. It wasn’t only that.” He hesitates. I refrain from shouting at him to get on with it, since he sounds not only alarmed but badly out of breath, as if he’s run a long way to get here. “There was a terrible smell. Like something dead.”
My heart goes cold. I order myself not to panic. I am a warrior; this is a mission. “Did you try to get in? Could you see anything?”
“I tried the door. It was bolted. Peered in a window, couldn’t see much, it was too dark. But there’s something in there, Dau. Something alive.”
I make myself draw a steady breath. Something dead. Something alive. Liobhan did see Seanan go into that place once. Why in the name of all the gods didn’t I think of this before? “Torcan, do you know anything about that building?”
“Not much. We skirt around it if we’re riding up that way. I think Master Seanan uses the place for storage; doesn’t like folk going too close. No idea what would be stored in such a building. It’s not in a good state of repair.”
A body, I think. That’s what he would put there. “We need to get up there now,” I say. “Corb, were you challenged coming in the gate?”
“The night guard was too tired to ask questions. Let me through with no trouble. Might think it a bit odd if I go back out straightaway, though.”
And it will certainly be noted if I go out before dawn. Noted and perhaps passed on to Seanan. I think fast. Who would be up and about at this hour? Bakers, busy with the day’s loaves. Night guards. And—ah! Monks. They’ll be up already, since their first prayers are made while it’s still night and their next at daybreak. I have a plan. It’s risky. With my voice kept low, I explain it.
“You understand, this could lose both of you your positions in the household,” I add. “If you don’t want to be involved, say so. I won’t hold it against you.”
Neither Corb nor Torcan points out the impossibility of a blind man doing this on his own. Instead they start quietly gathering what we might need. Both of them have good knives. We add the iron poker from our little hearth. My stick, which can both support me and be used as a weapon. Two waterskins, full. Torcan wraps up some food left from last night’s supper. We won’t risk a visit to the kitchen so early. At my request, Corb fetches Liobhan’s warm cloak.
“That’ll do,” I say, knowing that the guise we intend to use will be pointless if we’re festooned with weapons and supplies. “When we get to the infirmary, leave the talking to me. If anyone asks, tell them you’re following my orders. Ready?”
The house is hushed; most folk are still sleeping. I can only hope Seanan is one of them. “How long until dawn?” I whisper as we go out a little side door and head for the infirmary.
“An hour maybe. The sky’s lightening up now,” Corb whispers back.
I hope the monks are not also fast asleep, snatching what rest they can before the next round of prayers. With their patients to tend to, it’s likely at least some are wakeful. Archu wouldn’t like my plan. It’s fraught with risk. A blind man giving the orders. A stable hand and a kitchen boy as his team. What if Ruarc refuses to help us? What if he sends someone straight to Seanan?
We reach the garden beside the infirmary.
“Lights inside,” murmurs Torcan. “Someone moving about.”
With my hand through Corb’s arm, I approach the infirmary door. “Master Dau,” comes a man’s voice, somewhat startled. “Here to join us for Lauds?”
“I am not, sadly. I wish to have a word with Brother Íobhar, if he is free. I regret the early hour, but the matter is urgent.”
“Of course, Master Dau. Wait here, please.”
We wait. Corb suggests I sit down. I am too restless to sit. Body and mind are full of tangling thoughts. Liobhan is strong. She is a warrior. But she should be here. She should be back. Something alive. Something dead. What would you store in such a place?
“Dau.” It’s Ruarc’s deep voice. “What is it? I have just a little time to spare.”
I explain in as few words as I can. He knows Liobhan is missing. I tell him I think I know where she might be. That we need to get there unobtrusively. In particular, that we need to get out the gate without drawing attention. That it really is urgent. I pray to the deaf ears of God that my brother will not go straight to Seanan.
“I’m not sure I can be of assistance,” Ruarc says, and my heart turns to lead. “We are vulnerable here; ruffle the wrong feathers and we could find ourselves without a roof over our heads.”
There are words on my tongue, hurtful words about cowardice, about bearing witness, about speaking out. Something makes me hold them back.
“Young man.” Ruarc speaks in an undertone; I assume he is addressing one of my companions.
“Yes?” That’s Torcan.
“Open that chest, will you? That’s it. You’ll find some useful items there; take what you need. Close the chest when you’re done, please. I’d best go now, my brethren will be waiting.” A pause. “I regret that I cannot help you.”
I say nothing, and within moments it seems my brother is gone, because Corb is whispering to me, and the three of us are donning the garments from the chest: the hooded robes monks of this order wear about their daily business. Clad in these, we might be any three brethren making a routine trip over to St. Padraig’s. Seems Brother Íobhar’s words were not for me, but for anyone who might have happened to be passing by. Intended to clear him of complicity. So maybe he hasn’t changed much. But he helped us.
“With the hood up,” murmurs Corb, “you look just like your brother.”
Nobody questions us at the gate. We walk through with our hoods concealing our faces. I do my best not to limp. Corb uses the slightest of touches to guide me—I thought that was the most likely thing to give us away, but perhaps the light is still too dim for the guards to see us well, or perhaps they are simply tired after a long shift.
We don’t speak until we’re well away. I’m still half expecting Seanan’s men to appear in pursuit, though in fact we are committing no offense, unless it is an offense to dress as a monk when one does not believe in God.
“You all right, Dau?” asks Torcan quietly. “Ankle holding up?”
“Fine.” It’s not fine, but we have to keep moving, and if it hurts, it hurts. The uneven path doesn’t help. I want to run. I’m tempted to send the others on ahead. If I had a pair of Swan Island warriors with me I’d do so without hesitation. “I can go a bit faster. If she’s there, we want to get her out and away before . . . We want to get her out as soon as we can.” If she is there, if she’s hurt, we’ll have to take her back to my father’s house. I can’t think beyond that. I can’t think beyond something dead, something alive. I wish I believed in God. “Faster,�
� I say.
41
EIRNE
At some time in the night, the queen wakes again and slips outside to relieve herself. It’s cold under the trees; the birds are still, and the moon peers out through a veil of misty cloud. Eirne shivers in her delicate night-robe, wishing she had remembered her shawl.
She returns, parting the leafy hangings that shield her retreat, and meets her husband’s stare. Brocc is sitting up in bed, and in his hand is the ring of red-gold hair.
“What is this?” There’s a note in his voice that makes her forget she is the ruler of this realm, the one who makes the decisions, and turns her once more into the frightened child she once was, suddenly removed from everything familiar.
“A bird brought it. A messenger.” There’s no point in trying to dissemble; Brocc will know instantly, as she did, to whom the hair belongs. “Not long ago. I was going to wake you.”
He’s getting up now, stepping into his trousers, fastening his shirt, although it is still dark outside. “You know this must be my sister’s hair,” he says.
“I know, yes.” She’ll have to give him the message. Could she make it sound less urgent? He will want to go now, straightaway.
“What did this bird tell you, Eirne?” Brocc sounds fierce. He sounds like the warrior he is.
She tells him the truth. Softens her description, yes, to spare his feelings. But tells him the full story, the what, the where, the when. Sees the last color drain from his face; sees his eyes grow darker.
“I must go,” Brocc says. “Now, and quickly. I can’t leave her there.”
“It will take some time on foot, Brocc. You would not reach that place until an hour or two after dawn at the earliest. Did you not say it was close to a habitation of men? Surely someone will find her.”
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