“You speak in riddles,” said Finbar impatiently. “What of yourself? How can you be so calm, so accepting, when you see your sister as thin as a wraith, dressed in rags and her skin weeping with sores? I would rather die, or remain under this curse forever, than let her suffer this way for me. How can you stand back and accept this?”

Conor regarded him gravely. “Do not misjudge me. I feel Sorcha’s hurt deeply, and she knows it. But I have traveled this way before; and I have stood on the threshold between that world and this. Perhaps that makes it easier, for unlike the rest of you, I can carry both within me. For you, the changing will be harder each time. But your doubts do nothing to ease Sorcha’s task. She needs our strength, while we are here. She needs to touch us while she can.”

We sat quiet for a while. It occurred to me that Conor had not really answered his brother’s question. It was late, and the forest was still save for the axe blows ringing out in the darkness. I recalled another time, when I had seen Finbar’s mind-pictures despite his efforts to shut me out; the cold, the falling, the flight…was this what he feared, the flashes of sight that told him of things to come? How much did he see? And was the future so ill, that he did not dare to share his visions?

My mind was well shielded, but Finbar spoke as if he knew my thoughts. “Sorcha,” he said softly. “Believe me when I tell you that you should not be doing this; it would be better for you to go away, far away and forget us. Leave the forest and seek protection with the holy brothers in the west. You will never be safe here.” He twisted the ends of his hair in restless fingers.

“So we should all perish?” questioned Conor mildly. “The lady Oonagh would certainly be pleased with that result. You offend your sister with such a suggestion, Finbar. We are her brothers; she loves us as we love her. She could not take such a choice.”

“She must not stay here,” said Finbar. The shutter in his mind was firm; whatever dark knowledge he held there, it was not to be shown us.

“These images of the mind,” said Conor, poking the embers with a long stick, “they can be riddles in themselves. What you see may be truth, or half-truth, or a nightmare of your own making, born of your fears and wishes. The lady Oonagh’s enchantment may even now be at work within you. Perhaps she meddles with your inner voices as she changes your outer form. You cannot trust these visions.”

“What else can I trust?” Finbar replied. “With no knowledge of the time we were gone, what other map have we to guide our choices? There is scarce time to recall who we are, before it is blanked out again. Our father could be dead or worse.”