“He held his tongue. And will continue to do so, if I read him right. That will cost him dearly. Briton or no, he deserves his chance at freedom,” said Finbar soberly. “Your draft can buy that for him. There’s no way to save him the pain; we’re too late for that.”

“What pain?” Maybe I knew the answer to my own question, but my mind refused to put together the clues I’d been given, refused to accept the unacceptable.

“The draft is for his guards.” Finbar spoke reluctantly. Plainly, he wished me to know as little as possible. “Just make it up; I’ll do the rest.”

My hands found the packet almost automatically: nightshade, used in moderation and well mixed with certain other herbs, would produce a sound slumber with few ill effects. The trick lay in getting the dose just right; too much, and your victim would never wake. I stood still, the dried berries on the stone slab before me.

“What’s the matter?” asked Finbar. “Why are you still holding back? Sorcha, I need to know you will do this. And I must go. There are other matters to attend to.”

He was already on his feet, eager to leave, his mind starting to map out the next part of his strategy.

“What will they do to him, Finbar?” Surely not—surely not what I had seen, in that flash of vision that had sickened me so.

“You heard Father. He said, keep him alive. Let me worry about it, Sorcha. Just make up the draft. Please.”

“But how could Father—”

“It becomes easy,” Finbar said. “It’s in the training; the ability to see your enemy as something other than a real man. He is a lesser breed, defined by his beliefs—you learn to do with him what you will, and bend him to your purpose.” He sensed my horror. “It’s all right, Sorcha,” he said. “We can save this one, you and I. Just do as I ask, and leave the rest to me.”

“What are you going to do? And what if Father finds out?”

“Too many questions! We don’t have much time left—can’t you just do it?”

I turned to face him, arms folded around myself. Truth to tell, I was shivering, and not just from cold.

“I know you don’t lie, Finbar. I have no choice but to believe what you’ve told me. But I’ve never poisoned anyone before. I’m a healer.”

I looked up at his silent face, the wide, mobile mouth, the clear gray eyes that always seemed intent on a future path that held no uncertainty whatever.

“It happens,” he said quietly. “It’s part of war. Sometimes they talk. Sometimes they keep silent. Often they die. Just occasionally they escape.”

“Finbar,” I said. ‘What if—what would happen if someone else, say Donal or one of the guards, helped a prisoner get away, and Father found out? What would he do to them?” Young as I was, it had not escaped me that what my brother proposed was no mere act of childish disobedience, to be punished by a reprimand or, at worst, a whipping. This was no less than a knowing undermining of my father’s campaign; a willful hindrance of the quest that was his very reason for being.