A Dance with Fate Page 20

  “As a bard,” he says to me, “you know, I am certain, that in the Otherworld every gift comes with its price. So it is with the gift of knowledge. I myself will demand no recompense from you, Brocc. In one way or another, we are family. I will guide you and your friend to a place where his injuries can be healed. As for those you call the Crow Folk, they are a puzzle; an enigma. You are a warrior, a bard, and a man of compassion. Perhaps you are the one who will solve that puzzle. Follow me. The path will not be long.”

  I am wary of such statements. This is the Otherworld, where everything is changeable. We walk behind him, True resting his big hand on my shoulder. He cannot keep going for much longer. I feel the tremors in his body. After some fifteen paces Conmael walks off the track toward what seems an impenetrable tangle of thornbushes. He does not slow his pace. The dark cloak moves in a wind that is not here; the bushes part, leaving a gap just wide enough for True to pass through unscathed, with me coming behind. Before us opens a vista that surely was not here before, for it is the place from my vision, the green land at the foot of the great waterfall. Here it is not dusk, but day. I see the cliff; the tracery of soft growth across its face; the pool below, full of light. In a few steps, we have passed from one realm into another.

  20

  DAU

  Somewhere in that time before Liobhan found me, I lost count of the days. Everything slipped away but the pain and the darkness and the longing for it all to end. If I could not keep a tally, if I could not even tell light from dark, what sense was there in living? At the worst, my head felt as if it would burst apart. I wished it would. I wished it would split open like a rotting fruit and spill out my brains to make a feast for rats. I struck it against the wall, trying to make that happen, and someone hauled me back. I thrust my hand in the fire, and someone stopped me. Corb. It was Corb, who is scarcely older than I was when I first left this house. But I did not know him. I was a stranger to everything. They tell me I screamed, shouted, smashed things, hurled objects at the walls. They tell me it was lucky I did not set the whole place on fire. Lucky. I’m glad something was lucky.

  Liobhan is here and I will count the days again. She tells me she has been marking their passing on the wall of the wretched hut where they made her stay. I ask her to make fresh marks on the stable wall and she agrees. Not that I can see them, but I want them close by. She says she will carve them deep so I can read them with my fingers.

  I thought she might be locked up or even dead. She thought I must be in the house, tended to by physicians, fed and sheltered in a manner befitting the son of a chieftain. Now she is brisk, making decisions, taking charge in the way only Liobhan can, and I am glad of it. She made me apologize to Corb, and I did. I was cruel to him. I scared him. I scared myself. If I believed in God, or gods, I would pray never to feel pain like that again.

  We are in what used to be the harness room. In this place Snow was put to death. In this place I was forced to watch as my brother executed the only being I ever loved. In this place the man who is now mild-voiced Brother Íobhar held me back while Seanan wielded his knife. I hope Ruarc made his peace with his god and has truly become a better man. Is such a remarkable change possible? I doubt it. I do not trust him. Perhaps, in the quiet of his monastery, Ruarc is able to set aside the cruel part of his nature. But here, with Seanan and my father close by, that will be a higher mountain to climb.

  It is evening now. Corb and Liobhan have set up our new quarters with the help of some stable hands. Liobhan makes friends wherever she goes. It’s a remarkable gift. The fellows have walked over to the house for supper, taking Corb with them. The draft Liobhan gave me earlier sent me to sleep all afternoon, and when I woke, my head remarkably clearer, she had arranged a basic stillroom on a bench at one side of this area, which is separated from the stables proper by a partition with a door. There’s a shared privy out the back, and it’s all close to the pump. People have lent her things, and she’s already organized a source of herbs from the garden. There’s a good smell here, part horse, part fresh greenery.

  “I’ve got a poultice for your eyes,” Liobhan says now. “Damp, cool, with healing herbs in it. You’ll need to lie down. That’s it. Hold it firm.”

  “You’re expert at this,” I murmur, feeling more than a little useless. The wet cloth is a blessing against my swollen eyes.

  “An overstatement,” says Liobhan. “I did occasionally take notice of what my mother was doing, though I wish now I’d paid more attention. But please don’t start telling me I’d have been better off pursuing the calling of healer and not that of warrior. The fact that you’re lying down with your eyes covered doesn’t mean you can say whatever you like.”

  I respond with a grunt. I did once say something of the sort to her, though it was the calling of musician I recommended, having heard her remarkable singing voice.

  “Dau?”

  “Mm?”

  “This must be where it happened. Snow, I mean. It must be hard for you.” The joking tone is gone from Liobhan’s voice.

  “This is the place, yes.” Where I watched, where I sat holding her. Where she screamed and whimpered and fell silent. Where she bled on me until there was no more blood left. “I think I’m cursed. I bring down evil on anyone who dares get too close. When the pain is bad, it’s easy to believe what they say about me is true. That I don’t deserve to live, because when she gave birth to me my mother died. If she had lived, maybe they would have been different. Seanan. Ruarc. My father.”

  I hear Liobhan moving things around on her bench. There’s a thud and crackle as she drops another log on our little fire, then a clank as she stirs the embers with the iron poker.

  “Small steps,” she says eventually. “Small steps toward getting you well again. And small steps toward setting your ghosts to rest. Your recovery does seem to be my business now, since your brother challenged me to do it better than his people could. And for all the bad memories, I’m glad we’re here, and together. I wish I could be sure Seanan won’t come marching in and change the arrangements on a whim, but while I can, I’m planning to do this job well. And you’re going to help me. As for the ghosts, how you deal with them is not up to me. But I did wonder if you might make your peace with Snow in some way. Maybe something of her is still here. You loved her and she loved you. Her passing was cruel, I know, but that love was stronger. When they let you go, you didn’t run away and hide. You made sure she was sheltered in your arms when she breathed her last. She would have known that, Dau. Deep inside, she would have known.”

  The poultice masks my tears. It can’t quite take the effect of them from my voice. Never mind that. I’m sure it’s no surprise to Liobhan. “If it were your dog that had died, what would you do?”

  “Can’t you guess?”

  I imagine her and Brocc at home, perhaps mourning the passing of some beloved old family dog, a sturdy fellow who might have lain by Mistress Blackthorn’s feet as she brewed her remedies, or padded at Master Grim’s heels as he walked out to work his magic on a neighbor’s roof—when I visited them he had a dog like that, a sturdy black-and-white creature. Why couldn’t I have a family like Liobhan’s? A sudden startling thought flashes through my weary mind. You could, Dau. You still could. Because a man who lacks the love of a father, a mother, a brother, can still himself become a husband and a father. He can make a family anew. I don’t want that thought in my head. How could a blind man hope to keep his children safe?

  “Dau?”

  “You’d sing a song,” I say. “You’d make one up to suit.”

  “I can, if you want. Now, while there’s nobody else around. Or another night. Only, if I do it now, this place will hold good memories of Snow straightaway. And they will be stronger than the bad ones.”

  “It’s too simple,” I growl, angry with myself for dreaming of a future I never even wanted and now can’t have.

  “Simple is good,”
says Liobhan. “Like the love of a faithful dog. Tell me about her. That way I’ll know what to put in the song.”

  “May I take this off while I’m doing it?”

  “Why?”

  “It’s easier to talk without it. Easier to pretend I can see you.”

  A long silence. “All right. Pass it to me—there. But you must put it on again afterward. I’ll soak it some more while you’re talking.” Sounds of quiet splashing. “Now tell me what made Snow such a good dog. What were the things you loved most about her?”

  So I do, and I cry without my eyes covered, and Liobhan sits on the floor beside the pallet and holds my hand. And it doesn’t feel stupid to be behaving like a child, it doesn’t feel weak. It feels good. It feels right.

  There are many things to tell her. Snow’s soft ears with their little tufts; her tail that wagged so hard that sometimes her whole body moved with it. Her delicate paws. How she would put one foot up on my knee as if asking politely to be stroked. Her bright eyes. The way she would sleep curled up on herself so neatly. Her running form, a streak of pure white against the darkness of the trees. Her pelt shining in moonlight. The neat way she ate, not bolting her food down but savoring each morsel with delicacy. The collar I made for her with Garalt’s patient help. She was wearing that collar when she died.

  Liobhan works her magic with the song, putting in everything, making it rhyme, singing it in the voice I so loved to hear when we were at the court of Breifne and she performed with the band every evening after supper. I have missed that. I am no musician, but when she coaxed me to sing along with her on one or two memorable occasions, I felt proud to earn her approval. Now she keeps her voice soft, perhaps thinking of the drowsy horses next door in their stalls, perhaps not wanting to attract the attention of anyone who might be wandering outside. This household does not know she is a bard as well as a warrior.

  She reaches the last verse of her song.

  She walks beside him pace for pace

  In dappled light he sees her face

  Her bright keen eyes, her tufted ears

  Faithful through strife and joy and tears

  Her lovely spirit still burns bright

  The best of dogs, his heart’s delight.

  She pauses for a while, then says, “I hope that was all right. Brocc could do it better.” It sounds as if I’m not the only one crying.

  “It was fine. Thank you.” I almost believe Snow is here listening, in some incorporeal form. I wish I could believe it.

  “Now I’ll put the poultice back on,” Liobhan says, clearing her throat. “And if I sing anything else, it’d better be something silly like that song Brocc wrote about the lady with the skirt. Or the one about the fisherman—you know all the words to that.”

  I pull myself together, to the extent that I can while lying on my back with a cloth over my eyes. “Hah!” I say. “I can just imagine my brother happening to come in when we were singing a bawdy song together. He’d put two and two together and make nine-and-twenty. Or he’d decide I must be quite well and no longer in need of your attentions.”

  Liobhan snorts. “I’m almost tempted to try it and see what happens. But on second thoughts, maybe not. I have a plan for you and I don’t want it disrupted before we’ve even started.”

  “What plan?”

  “Tomorrow,” she says. “I think I hear the fellows coming back, and they should have some supper for us. Eat, sleep, and tomorrow we’ll begin.”

  The curious thing is that when I’m sitting up at our table a while later, eating some quite good food the stable hands have brought back for us, I can feel Snow’s warm body at my knee. I, the blind man, can see her hopeful eyes looking up as I eat my mutton pie. I can hear the slight movement of her claws on the hard slate of the floor. A tear trickles down my cheek; I lift a hand to wipe it away.

  I know Liobhan is watching me. But she doesn’t say a thing.

  21

  LIOBHAN

  Fear never won any wars. In Dau’s presence I show confidence. Poultice on, poultice off. Draft swallowed down to the last drop. I’ve warned Corb that if he has any doubts about our patient’s recovery, he should air them only when we’re out of Dau’s hearing. We have an agreement, Corb and I, that one or other of us will always be with him. We won’t ever leave him on his own. Word is that the monks have a lot of very sick people in their makeshift infirmary, including several suffering burns. Folk are saying none of the brethren has a moment to think of anything else. But I don’t trust Dau’s brothers, even the more approachable Brother Íobhar. I don’t trust Lord Scannal and I don’t trust Seanan’s men. While I’m close at hand I can keep Dau safe. As for Corb, he’s no warrior but he’s willing and able and he’ll call me if he can’t cope.

  The potion is allowing Dau good sleep at night, without the nightmares that plagued him earlier. The poultices and washes are reducing the swelling around his eyes. If he keeps his hands away from his face, the scratches will heal and the bruises fade. He’s eating quite well. Our friends in the stables provide for us during the working day, and an unnamed person in the kitchen is supplying extra rations so they can bring us a satisfying meal in the evenings. I warn Fionn that this arrangement may draw Master Seanan’s displeasure, and find that Iarla the steward has approved it. Seems that since meals have to be conveyed to the infirmary for the patients there, it’s considered reasonable for us to be supplied at the same time. Common sense—who’d have thought it?

  We’ve seen nothing of Seanan, which is both good and bad. Good because if the man comes here, it will only be for some ill purpose. Bad because it makes me suspicious. He loathes Dau. He despises me. He enjoys tormenting people. I feel as if I’m just waiting for him to charge in and ruin the delicate process of restoring Dau to health. Health of body and health of mind—that’s what I’m aiming for. I won’t let Seanan get in the way. Not even as a shadow in my mind.

  I let Dau spend three days resting, while I treat his eyes and give him the twice-daily draft. During that time I find out which of the women from the household know the most about herbs and healing. They’re unlikely to be treating the injured men from St. Padraig’s, but they’ll still have access to the garden. I discover that a woman named Miach makes up remedies for the women and children of the household. She’s said to know a lot about herbs and potions. Miach is the sweetheart of one of the stable hands, Torcan. I do wonder how many folk I might be getting into future trouble, but with Torcan’s help I meet Miach near the stables one morning—she’s a tiny thing with a shock of dark curls—and she offers to fetch me the herbs I want from the garden and to find me some of the other supplies and equipment I’ll need if I’m to provide for Dau properly.

  On the fourth day, after we’ve had breakfast and cleaned things up—Dau may be blind, but he’s capable of scouring dishes in a bucket of water and tidying up the bed he’s slept in—I say, “Right. Today you don’t rest until later. It’s fine outside and we’re going to start some exercise. There’s a place that should be suitable. It’s out past the grain store, a little yard that doesn’t seem to be used for much. Partly grassed, partly packed earth. Reasonably secluded. Ideal for some training. Let’s find out how much ground you’ve got to make up.” I’m changing into my trousers as I speak. Since Dau can’t see me, I don’t bother going behind the makeshift screen the stable hands have put up for us. They seemed to think this necessary once they realized I was planning to sleep in the same area as Dau. Corb has a pallet in the stables proper, not far from our door. If the men think this arrangement odd—why would Corb not share with Dau?—they make no comment, which I appreciate. I’m not planning to waste time and energy explaining that he and I are comrades, and that the kind of work we do means a person can’t be fussy about the living arrangements. Or that if he wakes at night to find his demons waiting, I’ll be the one battling them by his side.

  I plait
my hair tightly and pin it up into my combat style. I put on my boots. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Let’s go.”

  Dau is very quiet as we walk to the training yard, if indeed it can be called that—it’s more of a forgotten space that has suddenly come in useful. It’s not overlooked by any building; it’s out of most folk’s way. It is fairly close to a spot where Lord Scannal’s men-at-arms sometimes conduct their training, but I’ve seen little activity there of recent times and I judge we’ll be unobserved. I’ve asked Corb to come and tell us if anyone seems to be showing too much interest.

  “We start slow,” I tell Dau. “No rushing into the full set of exercises we were doing before we left the island. We build up gradually. On the ground to start with, on your back, ready to stretch. This patch is all packed earth. It’s about five man-lengths north to south and three east to west. Right now you’re facing south. On the north side there’s a patch of grass. No obstacles within the area. Ready?”

  Dau has sat down on the ground. He looks deeply skeptical. “What are you going to do, stand there and shout orders? Laugh at how weak I am?”

  “Don’t go out of your way to annoy me, Dau, or I’ll have to start acting like Archu. I’m going to do everything you do. I’ll be damned if I go back to Swan Island any weaker than I was when I left the place. I’ve been missing this. But I can’t do it without a training partner.”

  “How do I know what to do? Are you planning to execute the routine and talk while you’re doing it?”