“All right,” he said, “but don’t go far. He’d kill me if he knew I’d let you go out of sight. Take care. If you’re gone long I’ll come looking.”

Then, a sedate walk across the grass until I was out of sight. Feet moving cautiously, mind reaching with frantic haste. Where are you? How far upstream from the little bridge? Quickly, I don’t have long.

The bridge is not far to the south. A place where a great willow has fallen. I will come to you.

No! There is danger! Wait there; I’m coming.

At last, a bend in the path, and Ben was gone from view. I ran. Picked up my skirts and ran soft-footed under the willows, to the place where I remembered a huge tree lying by the path, its knotted roots laid bare, its guardian spirit long gone to seek another home. I could not see them.

Where are you?

“I’m here, Sorcha.” My brother Conor stepped out from behind the tangle of earth-covered roots, a thin, frail figure in the faint moonlight. I saw the extreme pallor of his face, the long, tangled hair, the ragged shreds of clothing that were all he had left. He looked as insubstantial as a wraith.

Don’t speak aloud. There are people close by. Oh, Conor! I felt his arms close around me. He was wasted like a man dying of the flux, and his body was racked by a violent trembling. But it felt good; so good to hold him.

The others. Where are the others?

They cannot come. Not this time.

But—but—Bitter disappointment flooded through me.

It takes great strength, great resolve, to coerce them; to force them to follow when every instinct they have cries out against it. I can bring them only once. When you are ready, call me, and we will come. Don’t weep, little owl. This is a very brave thing that you do for us.

At Meán Geimhridh, you did not come. I looked for you, and you did not come. That had indeed been a terrible night. Terrible and yet wonderful, for I had not forgotten the birth of John’s son.

We went to the cave, and you were gone. We could not find you. A mind picture of my brothers frantically searching; finding my belongings still scattered around the cave, my little hand loom, my warm cloak and boots; the fireplace blanketed in snow. Diarmid cursing. Finbar standing alone by the lake, silent.

The others—Conor, are they all right? What of Finbar?

They still live. But you should make haste, if you can. As soon as you are ready, you must call me. We can come only once.

He was holding something back; still expert at the arts of the mind, weakened as he was, my brother was veiling the full truth in order to protect me.

What is it? Conor, what is it you’re not telling me?

Hush, Sorcha. When you call, we will come. This I promise you.