"I'm not all strange. I'm just surprised."
"Get over it. He's still the same man."
I was stunned into silence and we sat without speaking until Owain returned. He motioned to the innkeeper for another round of drinks.
I wrapped an arm around Bramble who had jumped up onto my bench, drawing courage from her quiet nearness even as my shirt soaked through from her damp hair. I tried to find the words to apologise to Owain but as I finally opened my mouth, Rhiwallon spoke.
"So, Diarmuid, you never did say what this mysterious quest is all about."
I closed my mouth with a snap. Owain had revealed his secret. Now it was my turn.
"I'm going to Crow's Nest," I said.
Rhiwallon rolled her eyes. "I know that, but you haven't said why."
I flushed, then took a deep breath. "I'm a bard."
"Caedmon may have mentioned that." She sounded dubious.
My cheeks coloured although whether it was with embarrassment or anger, I couldn't have said. "I'm also the seventh son of a seventh son."
She raised an eyebrow. "So?"
"When a seventh son of a seventh son is a bard, he has… abilities. Or, at least, he does in my family."
"What sort of abilities?"
"I can sometimes bring my tales to life. Not always, and I don't know how it works. But sometimes the tales I tell, well, they happen."
The corners of Rhiwallon's mouth twitched.
"It's true," I said.
"I didn't say it wasn't."
"You don't believe me."
"No."
Bramble squirmed in my arms and I realised I had been holding her far too tightly. I released her and she stared up at me.
"But I think you believe it," Rhiwallon said and her tone was softer now.
I shrugged. "Like I said, I don't know how it works. I only know it happens."
"You need to fix something," Owain said slowly. "Something from a tale."
"I created a muse," I said. "In my head. It was a silly little thing to entertain myself but I pretended she was the source of my tales. Then, somehow, she came to life and escaped."
"She escaped from your head?" Rhiwallon's face said clearly that she didn't believe me.
Hot flames of embarrassment warmed my whole body. "Yes, and something went wrong. She's taken over Crow's Nest and she's making people kill each other."
"How do you know it's your imaginary muse?" Rhiwallon asked. "How do you know she isn't still in your head?"
"She isn't there anymore. She's nothing but a memory in my head now. She came to life but she's twisted. Wrong."
"But how do you know this woman you're travelling so far to get to is the one you made up?" Rhiwallon said.
"I just know," I said, miserably. "How does a parent recognise their child? It's her, I know it."
"You plan to stop her," Owain said.
I was surprised at the calm acceptance in his voice. He had discovered I too was responsible for death, and yet there he sat, drinking his ale and listening to my tale. If he judged me, I couldn't tell it from his face or words.
"How?" Rhiwallon asked. "I'm not saying I believe any of this, but how would you stop her?"
"I don't know. I'm hoping I'll figure that out. For now, I just need to get there. Make sure it's really her. Then… I don't know."
As the room darkened and grew chilly, the innkeeper lit lamps and soon the fireplace blazed, sending warmth through the room. Other patrons drifted into the room and soon the quietness was replaced with the steady murmur of conversation. A serving girl brought out our meals, four plates of mutton and three of pie.
Owain took one of the plates and carefully sliced the meat and vegetables into small pieces then set it down next to Bramble on the bench. Yet again it was he, not I, who thought to feed her.
My stomach had started to rumble as soon as the smell of roasted meat hit my nostrils and I ate eagerly. The mutton was tough, the vegetables clearly old and the gravy watery, but it was hot and filling.
We lingered a little longer after dinner. My stomach was full and the atmosphere was somewhat companionable, despite the stiffness between Rhiwallon and I.
I looked around the table. My journey's companions, although not what I might have expected: a mercenary, a woman running for reasons left unsaid, and a dog. Fiachra had said something else about my companions, that they would not all be what they seemed. And now I had discovered what that meant, for who would assume the gentle man across the table from me to be a hired killer?
28
Ida
I FEEL HIM moving towards me once again and he is no longer alone. I have seen his companions when I have visited him at night. The heart of one is filled with death, another has a heart that longs. The heart of the third contains a secret desperately hidden.
What do these companions mean to him? What would happen if I removed one? He told a tale once in which a sorcerer sent a magical construct to abduct a traveller. I could create such a thing. In his tale, the beast had eight legs and many eyes. It was large and venomous and filled with blackness. As I think of the beast, it appears before me. Solid. Hairy. Hungry.
Which companion should I remove? Perhaps the one with the secret. I remember her from the last time they met. I saw her then through his eyes, felt the emotions she aroused in him. She was the source of much confusion for him.
I send my beast towards him and wait. I am intrigued to learn whether he and his companions will act in the same way as the characters in his tale. I don't yet understand why sometimes folk act the way Diarmuid's tales say they should, and other times they don't.
In the meantime, my power grows with each day. At first, it was a trickle, like the merest hint of water seeping into a dry riverbed with the first of the winter rains. It eased through my limbs, moving ever so gently. As the days passed, the trickle became a steady flow and then a gushing stream.
The more I wield my power, the stronger the flow becomes. With my increasing power, I cleanse my surroundings. And the more evil I remove from this meagre village, the more my power grows. I do not let myself think of the inhabitants as people, for I fear I will pity them. Instead, I steel myself and do what I must.
There was a child. I sensed darkness in her heart. She reminded me of Diarmuid in a way. There was power inside of her, a power I didn't understand. But she didn't yet know her power, couldn't draw on it at will. I could not allow her to stay for she would contaminate the village. She might even destroy it.
Diarmuid told a tale once of a mother who was commanded by Titania to take her child into the woods and leave her there. So I followed his instructions. I charmed the mother of this powerful child and she took the girl to the woods. She stood and watched as the wild boars tore her child apart. Thus the girl and her strange powers were destroyed before she ever learnt to use them. And my village has one less evil to contend with.
29
Brigit
ON THE THIRD night after we left Owain's house, we stayed in the village of Shelby at an inn called The Cat's Whiskers. The inn looked rough and worn, the sort of accommodation where one should double check that their bedchamber door was locked before they went to sleep.
As best I could tell, somewhere around fifteen nights had passed since Diarmuid had started his journey. More than two sevennights and halfway to the new moon. Time was running out if his belief that he had to reach his muse before then was correct.
We procured two bedchambers at The Cat's Whiskers, bathed, and then gathered in the dining room. The room was perhaps half full, the crowd a little more hardened than where we had stayed previously. The tables and benches were battered as if they were often thrown to the floor and even the innkeeper looked like he had been tossed across the counter a few times. The meal presented to us was a less than appetising array of half-cold mutton and watery soup. I sniffed at the mutton, suspicious about its freshness.
"Ugh," Rhiwallon said, wrinkling her nose as she stared down at her
plate. "I can't eat that."
"It's not that bad," Owain said. His plate was already half empty.
Rhiwallon put a hand over her nose. "The smell of it is making me sick."
I sniffed my plate again. It definitely wasn't as fresh as it could be but it wasn't off. Owain had thoughtfully cut my serve into small pieces for me and I took a tentative bite. Tough and chewy, but edible. Certainly not worth the fuss Rhiwallon was making.
She pushed her plate away. "I'd rather starve."
Owain shrugged and reached for her plate. "I'll eat it if you aren't going to."
I was only half-listening. I couldn't quite figure Rhiwallon out. Her mood changed by the day. Sometimes she seemed tough and capable, like the night we met her in the barn when she threatened to stab anyone who sneaked up on her. At other times, like tonight, she was jittery and irrational.
Before I could think further on this, a group of travellers entered. There were six, all lean men with a professional air about them. Rhiwallon spluttered and I looked up just in time to see the colour drain from her face. She inched a little closer to Owain and ducked her head. Her unbound hair fell forward and mostly covered her face. She clenched her hands together tightly but not before I saw how they trembled. I could smell the fear that suddenly wafted from her.
The men spoke to the innkeeper for longer than seemed necessary to arrange bedchambers and meals, and then arrayed themselves around a table at the far end of the room. The innkeeper brought them mugs of ale. Rhiwallon seemed to sink down further. Owain's body shielded her from the men's view although if Owain himself realised anything was wrong, he gave no sign of it.
I jumped down from the bench. One benefit to being a dog was that people often didn't see me. Nose to the dirty floor, I inched closer to the men. One of them glanced towards me and I sniffed intently at a stale crust of bread. The man's gaze barely skimmed me before he looked away. I sidled closer.
"How much further do we go?" one of his companions asked. He downed his ale in a few gulps and the innkeeper swiftly replaced the mug.
Another man, one with an air of authority, shrugged. "We keep going until we find what we're looking for."
"Are you sure we're heading the right way?" the first man asked. "Surely by now we should have come across some sign of her."
The one who seemed to be the leader set down his mug and looked him in the eye. "We have our orders," he said and his words were clear and deliberate. "And we follow them. Anyone doesn't like that, they're free to leave. Without pay, of course."
I held my breath, hoping for more, but the conversation turned to more mundane topics, the chance of rain tomorrow and whether one of them needed new boots before the group moved on. The one who appeared to be the leader looked around the room, eyes narrowed as he examined each of the occupants. Owain's bulk still largely obscured Rhiwallon and the man barely glanced at her.
I lingered for another few minutes but heard nothing useful other than that they planned to depart late the following morning. I returned to our table and Owain met my gaze with just the slightest nod before suggesting we retire. He draped an arm loosely around Rhiwallon's shoulders as we left. She kept her head down, hair covering her face and her shoulders slumped as if to disguise her height, or perhaps her build.
When we reached our bedchambers, Owain suggested we all sleep in the same room. Rhiwallon agreed quickly and moved her pack into the larger bedchamber that Owain, Diarmuid and I had intended to share. Diarmuid laid a blanket down on the rug and stretched out. I curled up beside him in my usual spot and tucked my nose into my paws to keep it warm.
My mind whirled. Who or what was Rhiwallon running from? I could think of three reasons a woman like her would be running away: to escape violence, to flee from an unwanted marriage, or because she was with child and could secure no promise from the babe's father. Neither Diarmuid nor Owain noticed the times Rhiwallon slipped away to vomit or the way she sometimes held a hand over her stomach, as if cradling the life inside. She couldn't have been more than two moons along for there was no discernible swelling of her belly.
If Mother were here, she could have aided Rhiwallon with herbs. Fennel, perhaps, or a tea of raspberry leaf. Mother could have eased her sickness or, if Rhiwallon wanted, provided other herbs to release the child from her womb. Even I in my own form could have helped. If Rhiwallon took anything to soothe her stomach, I never saw it.
Her relationship with Diarmuid also puzzled me. Once or twice Rhiwallon had hinted she knew some secret of his. He had blushed bright red and mumbled. Obviously they had met before but I couldn't figure out exactly what manner of relationship they had or how well they knew each other.
Rhiwallon rarely saw the small terrier by her feet and she had about as much intuition as Diarmuid. Despite her initial demand that Diarmuid should keep me away from her, she didn't seem to mind my presence. Occasionally, she patted me roughly on the head, or ruffled the hair on my back, not noticing my discomfort. But she certainly didn't whisper any confidences to me the way Diarmuid did so I had little insight into her behaviour. Why was Rhiwallon running? And who pursued her?
30
Diarmuid
OUR JOURNEY WAS uneventful. The oxen walked tirelessly, the cart didn't break down, and we weren't attacked by robbers intent on murdering us as we slept. It had been almost three sevennights since I left home. I had expected to be at Crow's Nest long before now. Of course, I also hadn't expected such a lengthy delay while I was ill and my ankle was healing.
The easy travelling left me with plenty of time to plan for my confrontation with Ida. She was unlikely to listen to reason, however persuasive my words might be. Equally unlikely that she would feel compelled to obey me even if I was, in some way, her creator. So it seemed I must find a way to destroy her. Despite Caedmon's efforts to teach me to fight, my ability was limited to perhaps defending myself against an unskilled and unmotivated attacker. Perhaps my companions would aid me. Owain had the strength of several men and Rhiwallon was proficient with a bow and arrow. They were happy enough to travel with me but would they also help destroy Ida?
Crow's Nest was now only a two-day journey away and we were well between villages when it was time to stop for the night. We chose a spot beside a stand of shrubby young rowan trees, which were still mostly naked from the winter. Our routines for setting up camp came easily and without discussion for we had spent several nights outdoors.
Owain unhitched the oxen, then fed and watered them. Rhiwallon and I unloaded what we needed from the cart. Then she disappeared with her bow and arrow while I cleared a spot for a fire and gathered wood. It was always Rhiwallon, though, who lit the fire. She could down a hare and skin it long before I could start the fire and would hiss in exasperation as she watched my feeble attempts. Eventually she would shove me aside and light it herself, while I stood beside her, feeling inadequate and useless.
Nevertheless I persisted. I gathered up a good pile of twigs and some leaf litter and then retrieved my flint. Tonight though I couldn't produce so much as a spark. The wood was bone dry and the breeze was light enough that I couldn't blame its interference. Bramble watched from her basket, which I had positioned nearby, as I tried again and again, my frustration increasing as each attempt failed to produce even a whiff of smoke.
Rhiwallon returned with two neatly-skinned squirrels and took the flint from my hand without a word. I couldn't bear to watch her succeed where yet again I had failed so I turned to lay out the remainder of our meal: somewhat stale bread, hard cheese, and a few handfuls of hazelnuts we had picked that morning. But tonight, even Rhiwallon was unable to coax a flame into existence. She rearranged the twigs, and tried again, holding the flint close to the leaves and sheltering its flame with her hand. But still the fire wouldn't catch. Eventually she swore and shoved the flint into her pocket.
"No fire tonight," she said, her voice tight.
Owain had by now finished with the oxen. He glanced at the stacked twigs and the
dead squirrels and shrugged. "No matter."
I swallowed an offer to try. It would likely earn me a scornful glare and a few sharp words. If Rhiwallon couldn't get the fire started, I probably couldn't either. Instead I retrieved some dried meat from our remaining rations in the cart. When I returned, the squirrels had disappeared and Bramble had a somewhat regretful look on her face. Clearly they hadn't been offered to her.
We ate in silence, then Rhiwallon rose with a determined look. But yet again she couldn't produce even the smallest of flames. The evening stretched long and bleak without a fire to warm us. I soon lay down and wrapped myself in a blanket. The ground was hard and it took some time before I could get comfortable enough to sleep. Bramble curled up in her favourite spot behind my knees and I draped another blanket over her. I woke some time later to Bramble barking loudly, a series of short, sharp sounds I had never before heard from her. Owain was yelling something but I couldn't make it out over Bramble's barking. I sat up, sleep still clinging to my mind, confused by all the noise.
"What's wrong?" I asked. "Bramble, be quiet. Come here, girl."
She continued barking. A lamp flared. Owain lifted it high as he moved around our small campsite. Never before had I seen him move so quickly and it was this that finally informed my sleep-addled brain that there was a problem.
"Owain," I yelled over Bramble's noise. "What's wrong? Where's Rhiwallon?"
"Gone." He didn't pause long enough to even glance at me.
"What? Bramble, be quiet girl."
Bramble slunk over to me and crawled onto my lap. Her small frame convulsed with tremors and I gathered her up in my arms. I had never seen her act like this. Something was very wrong.
"Bramble, what is it?"
She whined and burrowed her nose into my chest. Owain still lurched around, the lamp held high, calling for Rhiwallon.
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