“The same person who put her there, maybe. I’m going. Not on my own. I’ll take Rowan or True with me, if one of them is willing.”
Eirne says nothing. Will it always be like this for him, his loyalty to his human family coming before his duty to her folk, who are now also his folk? His action will once again leave them vulnerable to attack. But Brocc is beyond listening. As for her own glad news, that must wait yet again. She hugs it to her like a treasure as she meets her husband’s cold gaze. “Very well,” she says. “Wake them if you will. And go if you must.”
Brocc is fully dressed, ready to walk out and start his mission. Every part of his body spells out the urgent need to be gone. But he’s not finished here. He turns toward her, and it is not to say a tender farewell. “Why didn’t you wake me?” he asks. “You weren’t going to tell me, were you? You were just going to leave it, leave my sister there to rot.” Unspoken but understood are the words After everything she did for you. True, Liobhan played a significant part in the quest to see the right king on the throne of Breifne, a quest initiated by Eirne’s own people. But Eirne owes her nothing.
“You exaggerate,” she says. “Let us not argue about this. I have told you now. Best be on your way.” Thinking of her child, she cannot bring herself to add Safe journey or I hope you find her in time. Her heart is full of fear.
42
DAU
We reach the place before dawn. The smell hits me long before we walk between the shielding trees. Something dead, yes. And another stink I recognize: the foul fishy stench of the Crow Folk. I don’t let myself think. “Check the door,” I tell the others. “Check the window. Go carefully, we don’t know what might be in there.” If only I had Hrothgar or Yann or any of the Swan Island team with me. If only I could see.
Corb and Torcan report back quickly.
“Door’s locked. But not strong; the place is pretty run-down. We could break it in, I think.”
“The window’s got iron bars,” says Corb. “The shutters are open a bit, as I told you. But there’s no shifting those bars. No getting in or out that way.”
“What can you see in there?”
“Cages. Something in them, fluttering about. Bits and pieces around the place, stuff on the floor.” A pause. “I don’t see her, Dau.”
“It’ll have to be the door.” Torcan’s bigger and stronger than Corb, with good shoulders on him. And despite my obvious drawbacks, I’m probably a good deal stronger than either of them, thanks to all that training with Liobhan. “You and I will do it, Torcan. Corb, I need you to keep watch.”
It’s an untidy job—one-two-three-crash!—but under the circumstances we don’t do too badly. The door groans and starts to give on our second assault and collapses inward on our third. We’ve made enough noise to raise the dead, but the things in the cages only flutter about weakly.
I want to rush in, search every corner. But I’ll only be in the way. “Torcan, you go in first. Corb, you’re my eyes. Walk me in and tell me everything you see.”
“Shelves of jars and bottles. Like in the infirmary, but messier. Knives, pincers, small saws, all kinds of tools. A mask hanging on a peg. Two masks, leather, the kind that cover your whole face.” Corb snatches a breath; his voice is shaking. “Things dangling from the rafters.”
“Things? What things?”
“Bodies. Of creatures. A fox. A cat. A rabbit. They’ve got . . . they’ve got marks on them. Burns. And cuts. Limbs missing. There’s dried blood all over the floor.”
I curse under my breath. “What about the cages? I hear something alive in there.”
“There’s one on a perch. One of those birds, like a crow but really big. It’s hunched over. Looks sick. There’s another one on the floor, moving about. It’s hurt, dragging a wing. And . . . dead ones, too, some piled up in a corner, and some just lying where they fell. Holy saints, Dau, who would do this?”
“Dau!” Torcan’s voice is sharp. “She’s here!”
A sound comes from me that I did not think I was capable of making. I stride forward, pulling Corb behind me. He slows me before I walk into something.
“Down at the end,” Corb says. “She’s on the floor, behind the last cage. On your left, just here. Torcan, is she . . . ?”
I crouch down, reach out a hand, touch a body through cloth.
“Corb,” says Torcan, “pass me your knife.”
I can’t bear this. “What’s going on? Is she hurt? Tell me!”
“Gagged, with her feet hobbled,” says Corb. “Torcan’s cutting off the gag now. She’s . . . she’s not conscious, Dau. And she’s cold.”
“I’m checking now.” Torcan sounds commendably calm. There are small sounds; perhaps he is turning Liobhan on her side, or cutting the other bonds, or putting his fingers to her neck, where the heartbeat can be felt. If a person is still alive. “Corb, fetch that cloak, will you?”
To warm a freezing woman? Or to wrap a dead one? “Torcan,” I make myself say, “is she breathing?”
At that moment there’s a little gurgling sound followed by a wheezing cough, and sudden movement beside me. “Help me sit her up,” says Torcan. “Corb, find a bowl or something, will you? She’s going to be sick.”
They are the best words I’ve ever heard. I don’t care if anyone sees I’m crying. I edge around until I’m on Liobhan’s other side, and Torcan and I support her in a sitting position. She’s freezing cold, shivering hard. We wrap the cloak around her. Her hair feels wet and her clothing has a strange smell, as if she’s had a draft of some sort spilled over her. But she’s here, she’s alive, we’ve found her in time, and a joy floods through me that is like the sun rising after a night of wild storm. I put my hand on her arm—her sleeve is in tatters—and she sucks in her breath, flinching. Before I can investigate, she starts to retch in violent, choking spasms. Corb brings a bowl and holds it in place as she spews up the contents of her stomach, then watery bile. The sounds go on for a while. We hold her, and I hear myself murmuring meaningless words of comfort, “It’s all right, we’ve got you, you’ll be all right,” and so on. All the time wondering about those potions on the shelves, and my father’s sleeping drafts, and where my brother gets his supplies. Liobhan’s been drugged, I’m sure of it.
She gives one last shuddering retch, takes in a long, labored breath, then rests her head on my shoulder. “Morrigan’s curse, Dau,” she whispers. “If that was devil’s-foot, I’m never using it ever again. Is it really morning?” She tenses suddenly, pulling away from us. “Who’s here? Are we safe?”
“Apart from me, only Corb and Torcan. Nobody else. And yes, we’re safe.” For now.
“We should move out of this corner,” Torcan says. “It’s too dark to see properly. Can you get up, Liobhan?”
She can’t support her own weight; she’s been lying unconscious a long while in the cold, and there’s the draft she’s taken. If it’s anything like what I was dosed with in those early days, it will leave her slow and confused for a while. We move her out to a more open area and find her a stool to sit on. There’s a dark fury rising in me. My lovely comrade is filthy and sick and hurt. I don’t want it to happen ever again. My brother must be stopped. I would relish punishing him with one or another of the vile acts he carried out on me, but that is not the way. My anger must stay hidden and bide its time, and when that time comes I must not act as he would.
“Water,” Liobhan says. “Please.”
Corb brings her one of our waterskins. “Take it slowly,” he says.
She drinks, shudders, drinks again. Gives back the skin. “Dagda’s bollocks,” she says. “I’m starting to wonder if I dreamed the whole thing . . . only, there’s this. Don’t touch. Just look.” She holds out her arm. “It’s a brand. He did it to one of the Crow Folk, too. Hurts like hell.”
“Sweet Mary and Joseph!” breathes Torcan. “He burned that onto you? Y
ou see what it is, Corb?”
“Sword and dagger crossed,” says Corb. He sounds beyond being shocked. “The family emblem.”
Now I’m the one who feels sick. “Those corpses you described,” I say. “Hanging up. Are they marked the same way?”
“More or less.” Torcan’s up and walking about, I assume to take a closer look. “I’d say some of them have been here awhile. Some probably fought harder against it. But it’s the same sign. A crude version of Lord Scannal’s emblem.”
Seanan may be cunning. He may be clever. But he’s made a grave error here. Unless, of course, he’s devised some plan to blame it all on me. It’s my family emblem, too. “We need to make note of everything. Remember everything. When we go back, I’m taking this to Master Beanón. I want it all set out before my father.” Deep down I know there’s no way Seanan intended to let Liobhan live. Not with his brand on her arm. He must be meaning to come back and finish her off. Then make her disappear for good. “It’s time,” I say. “Time for the truth to come out.”
“Seanan will lie,” says Liobhan. “His supporters will back him up. I’m a bond servant. You’re blind. And our friends here aren’t high in the household order.”
“I’ll tell the truth.” Bless Corb, he is a fine young man.
“I’ll tell what I’ve seen, of course,” says Torcan. “But it’s hard to pass on what you’ve heard when it might get someone else in trouble. Like what I knew about this place and why we were supposed to keep away.”
“And so men like Seanan continue to rule their households by fear,” I say. “We should move. We should go back.”
“Why are you dressed like monks?” asks Liobhan.
“Long story. A useful disguise for coming out the gate, but it won’t work for getting back in, since there are now four of us and only three habits. Will you be able to walk the distance, Liobhan?”
“Of course,” she says. A moment later I hear Corb exclaim, there’s a rush of movement and a crash as the stool goes over. Not only can Liobhan not walk the distance, she can’t even stand up on her own without fainting right away.
I sit on the floor with her head on my knee. Corb covers her up with the cloak. Torcan gets out the food we brought and passes around a waterskin. Nobody says much.
I go through the challenges in my mind, as Archu would expect. However long we wait to set out, we’ll still be slow. Liobhan’s weakened by what they did to her. I need to be guided and there’s my wretched ankle as well. Corb and Torcan are not fighters. Can someone carry Liobhan most of the way? I know I can pick her up and put her over my shoulder, I’ve done it before. But that was before the ankle, and one lift is not the same as bearing an adult’s weight over a distance. Torcan would be struggling to manage and Corb simply isn’t strong enough. Two people carrying her between them? That would really draw attention. And because I’m blind, I couldn’t be one of them. Which would leave me to walk back without a guide. A pox on it!
“One of us could go back and fetch help,” suggests Corb. “Or we could head up to my parents’ farm instead, stay there for a bit while Liobhan recovers.”
Neither is practicable. Sending Corb or Torcan to fetch help is too risky; we don’t want Seanan to find out what’s happened until I’ve had a chance to talk to certain people. Going to the farm is appealing—Liobhan could be properly looked after, and all of us would get some breathing space. But Seanan’s going to come back here. He has further intentions for Liobhan or he wouldn’t have left her alive. If we go and he finds the place empty, he may seize the opportunity to clean up and dispose of the evidence. Then, when I speak out, he’ll accuse me of inventing the whole thing. Besides, he’d most likely guess where we were. I don’t want to bring down disaster on Corb’s family.
“Be fine soon . . .” Liobhan’s regaining consciousness, struggling to sit up. “Should walk . . . need to go . . .”
“Shh.” I stroke her hair away from her brow. “Rest for a while. It’s all under control.” A lie if ever there was one. But it’s still early; we do have time. Stay calm, says the voice of Archu in my mind. Make a plan.
“So, we wait for a while,” I say in the most confident tone I can summon. “One of us keeps watch outside under cover of the trees. The moment they see anyone coming, they slip back in here and warn us.” This is the flaw; if we stay inside this building so Liobhan can be in shelter, we could be trapped, cornered. The broken door is the only way out. Seanan is ruthless. He’d cut us down one by one rather than have this exposed. Or he’d use fire.
“Bad plan,” murmurs Liobhan. “Get out . . . now. Get . . . under cover . . . But not in here . . .” A hint of her true strength is creeping into her voice. “I can walk,” she says. “I can. Dau, you can help me.”
A silence. Nobody says, Dau can’t see. Because Liobhan has a perfectly good set of eyes. “Good,” I say. “Corb, pack our things up, please. Torcan, see if you can spot some bushes or a stretch of wall, somewhere clear of this building and big enough to conceal all four of us. We go there, we get under cover, and we wait until Liobhan’s strong enough to walk down to the gate. Then we go. We’re hardly going to be attacked in full view of whoever’s on watch. Liobhan, you’ll wear this habit I’ve got on. Unless I walk right into Seanan, I should be able to talk us in the gate.”
There are flaws in this plan, too. But it beats staying where we are and finding ourselves boxed in by Seanan’s men. If he starts disposing of evidence, burning things, destroying things, at least the four of us can bear witness later.
43
LIOBHAN
We’re crouched behind some bushes, still uncomfortably close to Seanan’s charnel house. I feel like death, but I’m damned if I’ll say so. We’re taking turns to watch the track down to Lord Scannal’s establishment. If anyone comes, we’re hoping they’ll walk on by without seeing us. The day’s getting brighter, soon all sorts of folk will be about, and I’m liking this plan less with every moment that passes. It doesn’t help that I can’t stop shivering, and my head still feels as if it’s been shaken around, and my arm needs a poultice badly. I’m about to make an inappropriate remark when I see them, not on the track but making a covert way on the far side of it, each going on his own, but all of them heading in the same direction. They’re moving under cover of bushes or down behind the ill-kept drystone walls, using the natural rise and fall of the land for concealment. At least, they’re trying to, but they’re not very good at it.
“Men approaching!” I manage to sound calm. “Five, I think. One of them is Seanan.” I feel sick. I want to kill that man, I want it so badly I’m gritting my teeth and clenching my fists and I can feel the fury right through my aching, poisoned body. Which tells me I’m in no fit state for a fight.
“Keep down,” says Dau.
But it’s already too late: they’ve seen us. My red hair, no doubt. One of them calls, points. Seanan halts as if turned to stone. Then shouts a command, and the six of them, yes, six, come pounding up the rise toward us.
“Knife!” I snap, and Torcan puts one in my outstretched hand. “They’re headed straight for us, Dau, closing fast.” Dau will be relying on gut instinct and hearing, and the other two aren’t fighters. I’ll do what damage I can before they overpower us. The odds aren’t good. Among those men is a very big one. Ultán. I remember him from last night, before I passed out. But he’s only my number two target.
“Hold fast, team.” Dau’s voice is iron-strong.
“Dau,” I say. “Don’t get yourself killed. Please. They’re about forty paces away, Seanan in the middle, a man on either side of him, three behind. Staves. Knives, I think. One man with a coil of rope over his shoulder. You need a knife?” He doesn’t seem to have any weapon but the stick he uses to support himself. Morrigan’s curse, he won’t last to the count of ten. Bollocks to this whole thing.
“Don’t you either,” he says. “Get yourself kil
led, I mean. I didn’t rescue you so you could throw away your chances in some stupid fight.”
“Thirty paces and gaining. You’ll want Seanan alive, mm?”
“Not if it means letting him kill you. But yes. I want him to face justice.”
“Twenty paces. Ready?”
And they’re on us. I slash the first man’s arm, then lose my grip on a knife slippery with blood. I use fists and feet, setting aside the pain in my body. I topple another man, and Torcan knocks him out with a length of tree branch. Corb is wrestling with a third man, doing better than I’d have thought he could.
And Dau . . . I can’t see Dau. I turn, and there he is, striking one of the attackers with his stick, an awkward blow but strong. The man staggers; I kick his legs out from under him and he falls. Before I can knock him out, another man grabs me around the waist. An elbow strike smashes his nose satisfactorily and he grunts in pained surprise, slacking his grip. I wriggle free, punch him in the jaw, and he, too, is down.
I straighten to see Seanan standing on the edge of the melee, arms folded, a slight smile on his face. I’m breathless, feeling sick, dizzy from an effort that wouldn’t raise a sweat under normal circumstances. Mustn’t faint. Must keep fighting.
Corb screams. It’s a sound to chill the heart, a death shriek, and it stops me in my tracks.
“Corb!” shouts Dau, but he can’t help. He can’t see Corb lying on the ground with his head on a strange angle and his hands loose by his sides and his eyes staring up at the morning sky, unseeing. The man who just killed him stands looking down at him; it’s Ultán. He moves now, heading straight for me.
“Dau!” I shout. “Torcan! Run!” Because I know that the way I’m feeling right now, I won’t be a match for him, and two of the felled men are showing signs of getting up to join in again.
A Dance with Fate Page 35