“I suppose someone will,” Muirne said.
“Thank you.” Should I add
I couldn’t
The thought disgusted me. And it fascinated me.To my horror, I realized I wanted to read on. Did Nechtan and his assistant open whatever portal it was and bring forth a fearsome army? Was that even possible? If I used the mirror again, would it open the same window into that man’s dark thoughts? What might I see there?
I shuddered, remembering. Sickening as the scene in the vision had been, equally appalling was the fact that Nechtan had evidently taught his assistant not just the skills of sorcery but also his own warped moral codes. She was the one who had fetched the little dog; that had been her idea. She had chosen to stay in the chamber and watch as Nechtan demonstrated his expertise in torture. In the mirror vision, she had been a presence in the shadows, a figure leaning over to scrub the table, a fall of golden hair. I had never quite seen her face. But her voice had revealed her approval, her admiration, her slavish willingness to help. If Nechtan was the one who had made her that way, Anluan’s great-grandfather had truly been an evil man.
As it began to grow dark, I ventured out to fetch water from the pump, carried it up to my chamber in a bucket and washed my face and hands. I combed and plaited my hair, pinning the braids up on top. With no fresh gown to change into—the one I’d worn for travel needed sponging and airing—the best I could do was give the green one a brushing down. If I stayed here, I was going to need additional clothing to see me through the summer. I had a nightrobe and a change of smallclothes. Apart from those, my pack had held only an embroidered kerchief that had belonged to my mother and the doll Maraid had sewn for me after Mother died. Roise was only a handspan tall. Her features were worked in fine thread and she had dark silky hair, the same color as mine. Her nut-brown skirt was made from one of my mother’s, her cream linen tunic from one of my father’s shirts.A favorite blue ribbon of Maraid’s formed her sash. I could not look at Roise without thinking of my family. The doll made me sad and happy both at once. In the dark time I had clutched her to my breast all night long. I had soaked her embroidered face with wretched, helpless tears.
I set Roise on the pillow. She looked somewhat out of place in this bare, dim chamber. I must ask Magnus for a lamp, or at least a candle; those steps would be treacherous at night. As for the question of clothing, the first spell of wet weather would see me in difficulty. I had not anticipated spending so long in a place where there would be no opportunity to sew or to borrow suitable garments. It was further evidence of how poorly I had planned my flight from Market Cross. Perhaps the practical Magnus would have an answer. He’d probably tell me to ask Muirne. A chieftain’s wife—if that was what she was—generally did distribute her own old clothing to the poor and deserving, but even on the unlikely chance that Muirne would put me in that category, there was no way her garments could be made to fit me. She was of slight build, while I had a smaller version of my sister’s figure, my bosom and hips generous, my waist narrow. Ita had once remarked that it was a whore’s body.
Suitably tidied, I made my way to the kitchen where the table had been cleared of cooking paraphernalia and was set with seven bowls, seven spoons and seven goblets. Magnus was stirring a pot on the fire.
“Can I do anything to help?” I asked.
Before he could answer, a familiar figure in a red cloak and gold chain made a regal entrance into the chamber.
“Rioghan!” I exclaimed, finding myself well pleased to see a familiar face, even one fairly new to me.
“Welcome to Whistling Tor, Caitrin,” Rioghan said, and swept into his well-practiced bow. “What a delight. We see few visitors here, and even fewer comely women.”
I felt myself blush scarlet.
“You’re embarrassing the girl, Rioghan,” said Magnus, setting his pot on the table. “She’s not one of your flirtatious court ladies.”
“I was merely speaking the truth,” Rioghan said. “Please be seated, Caitrin. There is a woeful lack of ceremony to our repasts here. Our welcome is nonetheless genuine.”
“Thank you,” I said, and sat. The king’s councillor took the place opposite me.
The forest man, Olcan, came in next, with Fianchu in close attendance. The enormous hound went straight for a corner by the hearth, where a meaty bone lay beside a pile of old sacks. Fianchu settled on the sacks and began a purposeful crunching.
“Ah, Caitrin,” said the forest man. “So you found the house. Staying?”
“For a trial period. I’ve been given some work to do in the library.”
“Good,” observed Olcan, seating himself beside me. “Hope you stay awhile. Fianchu likes you. Don’t you, boy?”
Intent on his bone, Fianchu made no response.
“That smells good, Magnus,” I said.
“The meal will be humble, alas,” said Rioghan in melancholy tones. “Times have changed at Whistling Tor. This was once a fine household, Caitrin. Supper was consumed in the great hall. Ale flowed copiously.The floors were thick with sweet-smelling rushes. Bards entertained the crowd with harp and pipe. After the meal there was dancing.” He sighed.
Magnus had begun to ladle out the contents of the pot, serving each of us in turn. It seemed odd to me that we were starting without Lord Anluan or Muirne, for both of whom, by my count, places had been set. But it was not for me, the newest arrival, to say anything about it. When I heard footsteps in the hallway I thought they had arrived, but it was Brother Eichri who entered, looking even thinner and paler than before. There was a
