This seemed to exhaust him, and he lay back on the bed, staring up at nothing, the blanket still clutched around him. I chose my words carefully.
‘It’s men that play games,’ I said, ‘and men that did this to you. But I’m not asking you to tell any secrets, or do anything but get well. This is no cup of Isha; drink from it and you get only what your body needs. Anyway, it was one of my brothers that rescued you, and I helped him. Why would I want to harm you, after that?’
He turned his head slightly then, and his look was dismissive.
‘One of your brothers,’ he said. ‘How many of them do you have?’
‘Six.’
‘Six,’ he echoed scornfully. ‘Six killers. Six demons from hell. But how could you understand? You’re a girl.’
His tone held both venom and fear. I wondered how Father Brien had managed thus far; perhaps the herbs had kept the boy cooperative and docile, so that what he needed could be done without dispute.
‘My brother risked a great deal to help you,’ I said, ‘and so did I.’ But you were tortured in my house, by my people. ‘My brother always does what is right. He never betrays a secret. And I may seem a child to you, but I do know what I’m doing – that’s why I was sent for. I don’t know what they plan for you, but you will certainly be helped to reach a place of refuge, and then to return home.’
He gave a harsh bark of laughter, so sudden it startled me.
‘Home!’ he retorted bitterly. ‘I think not.’ He had relaxed his grip on the blanket, and twisted his fingers together. ‘There’s no place for me there, or anywhere. Why should you bother with me? Go back to your dolls and your embroidery. Sending you here was foolish. What do you think it would take for me to kill you? A quick grab at the hair, a little twist of the neck … I could do it. What was he thinking of, this brother?’
He flexed his fingers.
‘Good,’ I said approvingly, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘At least you’re starting to think, and look around you. Maybe my brother was wrong, and Father Brien; expecting a warrior such as yourself to repay a debt in kind. Maybe they thought there was a code of honour amongst your people, as with ours.’
‘Honour? Huh!’ He looked directly at me, and I could see that his face might be handsome in the way of the Britons, were it not for the marks of pain and exhaustion. The nose was long and straight, the planes of the face well chiselled and strong. ‘You know nothing, girl. Tell your brother to take you through a village after he and his men have finished with it. Let him show you what’s left. Ask him if he’s ever spitted a pregnant woman like a sucking pig. Remind him of your people’s habit of slicing the limbs off their victims while they scream for a quick end.’ His voice rose. ‘Question him on the creative uses of hot iron. Then talk to me about codes of honour.’
He broke off, and began to cough, and I went over to him without thinking and held up the cup of water to his lips. Between the paroxysm of coughing, and trying to breathe, and the trembling of my hand, most of the water went over the bed, but he did swallow a couple of drops despite himself. He drew breath finally, wheezing painfully, and looked at me over the rim of the cup, seeing me for the first time.
‘Damn you,’ he said quietly, and he took the cup out of my hand and drank the little that was left. ‘Damn you all.’
Father Brien chose this moment to appear at the doorway, took one look at my face and ordered me outside. Sitting under the rowans, listening to the small sounds of bird and insect about their daily business, I wept for my father, and for my brothers, and for myself.
Father Brien stayed inside a long while. After a time, my tears subsided to a faint hiccup or two, and I blew my nose and tried to get past the hurt of what the boy had said, and concentrate on why I was there. But it was hard; I had to argue with myself every step of the way.
Finbar is good. I know him as I know myself.
Why didn’t he speak up, then? Why wait until the damage was done, to perform a rescue? And what about the others? They did nothing.
Liam is my big brother. Our guide and protector. Our mother gave him that task. He would not do evil things.
Liam is a killer like his father. So is the smiling Diarmid. He turns a sunny face to you, but truly he seeks to be just like them both.
What about Conor, then? He does not go to war. He is just. He is a thinker.
He, too, could speak out, and does not.
But he helped us. At least I think he did; he knew about the boy, and he never stopped me.
Conor is a skilful player of games.
Cormack knows nothing of war yet; to him it’s all fun and sport, a challenge. He would not condone torture.
He’ll learn soon enough. He hungers for the taste of blood.
And what about Padriac? Surely he is quite innocent of all this, absorbed in his creatures and his experiments?
True enough. But for how long? And what of yourself, Sorcha? For you are no longer innocent.
So I warred with myself, and could not ignore that other voice. Still it was agony to believe: could the brothers that had tended my bruised knees and taken me along, with reasonable patience, on so many childhood adventures really be the cruel and unscrupulous savages the boy had depicted? And if so, where did that leave me, and Finbar? I was not so naive, even at twelve, as to believe only one side in this conflict was capable of torture and hurt. Had we saved the true enemy? Was nobody to be trusted?
Father Brien took his time. I stayed where I was while the conflict within me slowly abated, and my mind was taken over by a stillness that emanated from the old trees themselves, and from the ground which nourished them. This was a familiar feeling, for there were many places in the great forest where you could drink in its energy, become one with its ancient heart. When you were in trouble, you could find your way in these places. I knew them, and Finbar knew them; of the others I am not so sure, for often when the two of us sat quiet in the fork of a great oak or lay on the rocks looking into the water, they were running, or climbing, or swimming in the lake. Even so, I was learning how little I knew my own brothers.
The rain had stopped completely, and in the shelter of the grove the air was damp and fresh. Birds came out of hiding; their song fluted overhead, passing and passing, very high. At such still moments, voices had spoken to me many times, and I had taken these to be the forest spirits or the souls of the trees themselves. Sometimes I felt it was my mother’s voice that spoke. Today, the trees were quiet, and I was in some distant place of the mind when a slight movement on the other side of the clearing startled me out of my trance.
There was not the least doubt in my mind that the woman who stood there was not of our world; she was exceptionally tall and slender, her face milk-white, her black hair down to her knees, and her cloak the deep blue of the western sky between dusk and dark. I stood up slowly.
‘Sorcha,’ she said, and her voice was like a terrible music. ‘You have a long journey before you. There will be no time for weeping.’
It seemed crucially important to ask the right questions, while I had the chance. Awe made me tongue-tied, but I forced the words out.
‘Are my brothers evil, as this boy tells me? Are we all cursed?’
She laughed, a soft sound but with a strength in it beyond anything human.
‘No man is truly evil,’ she said. ‘You will discover this for yourself. And most of them will lie, at least some of the time, or tell the half-truths that suit them. Bear this in mind, Sorcha the healer.’
‘You say a long journey. What must I do first?’
‘A longer journey than you can possibly imagine. You are already on the path set out for you, and the boy, Simon, is one of its