I said as firmly as I could. I looked at each of them in turn – Finbar with his ashen face and clear grey eyes, the mild, penetrating gaze of Father Brien. Simon’s touch communicated his pain and despair. ‘I have a job to do here, and it’s not finished. Between you, you’ve already undone most of my good work this afternoon. Finbar, you must go home, and leave me to my proper task. Believe that I am safe here, and best left alone. I will call you when I am ready.’
He needs me, Finbar.
I won’t leave you here. He tried to keep me out of his thoughts, but he could not quite conceal his guilt and confusion. This worried me. Wasn’t Finbar the brother who was always so certain, who always knew what to do?
You must leave me. This is my choice.
And so he did, eventually. It was fortunate that Father Brien trusted me and believed in what I was doing, for it was he who persuaded my brother to move back into the cottage and leave me alone awhile with my patient. Simon let them go, silent. It was only after they were out of sight, and the cottage door closed with a thud, that the restraining grip on my arm changed to a clutch for support, and he let out his breath in a long shuddering gasp. Between us, the dog and I got him back into the cave and lying down, and I broke all my rules and made him a draught that would give him a reasonable sleep. Then I sat by him, talking of nothing much, watching him grapple with the pain and fight to keep silent. After a while, the effects of the herbal infusion stole over him and his features began to relax, his eyes clouding. My arm was hurting quite a lot, and I went quietly over to Father Brien’s shelves to seek an ointment, perhaps mallow root or elderflower. I found what I wanted in a shallow lidded bowl, and returned to my stool to anoint my bruises. There was a ring of reddened flesh right around my upper arm. Massaging with the salve relieved the pain a little.
Something made me glance up as I placed the lid back on the bowl. Simon was still awake, just, heavy lids not quite masking the startling blue of his eyes. ‘You bruise too easily,’ he said indistinctly. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’ Then his lids dropped and he was asleep. The dog moved in closer, wedging herself alongside him on the narrow pallet.
There was a short spell, then, for explanations and decisions. I went to the cottage and we stayed there, but with the door open, for as I told the others, Linn would alert me if Simon wakened. Father Brien insisted that both Finbar and I ate and drank, although neither of us had the stomach for it.
It took a while to persuade Finbar to go home. He still believed me to be in danger, and swore that Conor would never agree to my staying. I used his old argument against him: you should not assume a Briton was evil just because of his golden hair, or his height, or his strange manner of speaking. He was a human being with strengths and weaknesses, just like us. Hadn’t Finbar said so himself many times, even to our father?
‘But he threatened to kill you,’ said Finbar, exasperated with me, ‘he held a knife at your throat. Does that mean nothing?’
‘He’s sick,’ I said. ‘He’s scared. And I’m here to help him. Besides, I was told …’ I broke off.
Finbar’s gaze sharpened. ‘Told what?’
I could not lie. ‘Told that this was something I must do. Just the first step on a long and difficult path. I know I have to do it.’
‘Who told you this, Sorcha?’ asked Father Brien gently. They were both staring at me intently now. I chose my words with care.
‘You remember Conor’s old story, the one about Deirdre, Lady of the Forest? I think it was her.’
Father Brien drew his breath in sharply. ‘You have seen Them?’
‘I think so,’ I said, surprised. Whatever reaction I had expected from him, it was not this. ‘She told me this was my path, and I must keep to it. I’m sorry, Finbar.’
‘This Briton,’ said Finbar slowly. ‘He is not the first I have met, or spoken with. The others, though, were older men, more hardened, and at the same time simpler. They were glad enough to take their freedom and go. This one plays games, he toys with us and relishes our confusion. If indeed you have received such an instruction, you have no choice but to obey; yet I can hardly believe this boy means you no harm. I am not happy to leave you here, and I think Conor would agree with me.’ He twisted a lock of hair between his fingers. The colour had returned to his face, but his mouth was grim.
I stared at him. ‘Why should Conor decide?’ I asked. ‘He may be in charge, for now, but he’s only sixteen.’
‘Conor is old beyond his years,’ said Father Brien in his measured way. ‘In that, he resembles the two of you. He too has a path set out for him. You have, perhaps, taken this brother for granted; the quiet one, with his steady reliability, his kindness and fairness, his fund of knowledge. But you know him less well than you think.’
‘He does seem to know a lot of odd things,’ I said. ‘Things that surprise you.’
‘Like the Ogham,’ said Finbar quietly. ‘The signs, and where to find them, and how to read their meaning. What we know of that we learned from Conor.’
‘But where did he learn it?’ I said. ‘Not from any book, I know that much.’
‘Conor is expert in a number of matters,’ said Father Brien, gazing out of his small window. The late afternoon sun caught the wisps of greying hair that fringed his calm brow, turning them to a flaming aureole. ‘Some he learned from me, as the rest of you did. Some he taught himself from the manuscripts gathering dust in your father’s library; as did you, Sorcha, with your cures and your herb lore. You will find, as you grow older, that as well as this knowledge Conor has other, more subtle skills; he carries ancient crafts that belong to your line, but which have been largely forgotten in today’s world. You see the village people, how they revere him. It is true that in your father’s absence Conor is a good steward, and they acknowledge that with due thanks. But their recognition of him goes far deeper.’
I remembered something then. ‘The old man in the village, old Tom who used to be the thatcher, he said something – he said that Conor was one of the wise ones, like Father, or like Father should have been. I didn’t understand him.’
‘The family of Sevenwaters is an ancient one, one of the oldest in this land,’ said Father Brien. ‘This lake and this forest are places where strange things come to pass, where the unexpected is commonplace. The coming of such as I, and our faith, may have changed things on the surface. But underneath, here and there, the magic runs as deep and as strong as in the days when the Fair Folk came out of the west. The threads of many beliefs can run side by side; from time to time they tangle, and mesh into a stronger rope. You have seen this for yourself, Sorcha; and you, Finbar, feel its power compelling you to action.’
‘And Conor?’ asked Finbar.
‘Your brother has inherited a weighty legacy,’ said Brien. ‘It chooses whom it will; and so it did not fall to the eldest, or even to the second, but to the one best able to bear it. Your father had the strength, but he let the burden pass him by. Conor will be the leader of the old faith, for these people, and he will do it quietly and with discretion, so that the ancient ways can still prosper and give guidance, hidden deep in the forest.’
‘You mean Conor is – you mean he is a druid? How could he learn this from books?’ I asked, confused. Had I known my own brother so ill?
Father Brien laughed softly. ‘He could not,’ he said wryly. ‘This lore is never committed to the page; the tree script that he showed you is its only form of writing. He has learned, and learns, from others of his kind. They do not show themselves, not yet, for it has been a struggle for them to hold on. Their numbers are dwindling. Your brother has a long path to travel yet; he has barely begun his journey. Nineteen years, that is the allotted span for the learning of this wisdom. And it goes without saying that talk of this is not to be spread abroad.’
‘I wondered, sometimes,’ said Finbar. ‘One cannot listen, and move through the villages, without learning whom the people trust and why. It explains why he leaves