I have spoken of the keep where my family lived, a stark stone tower set deep in the forest, its walls pierced here and there by narrow window slits. Its courtyard, its hedges, its kitchen garden did little to soften the grim profile. But there was more to Sevenwaters than this. Without our walled fields, our thatched barns to house herd and flock over winter, our gardens with their rows of carrots, parsnips, and beans, our mill and our straw-rope granaries, we could not have survived in such isolation. So, while we felled as few trees as we could, and then only with the deepest respect, the forest had been cleared behind the keep and for some distance to the north, to make room for farm and small settlement. There was no need for ditch or wall here, to keep out marauders. There was no need for escape tunnel or secret chamber, although we did make use of caves to store our butter and cheese against the winter, when the cows would not give milk. Here and there, at other points in the vast expanse of forest, several small settlements existed, all within my Father’s luath. They paid tribute, and received protection. All were people of Sevenwaters, whose fathers and grandfathers had dwelt there before them. They might venture out beyond the boundaries sometimes, to a market perhaps or to ride with my father’s campaigns, when the services of a good smith or farrier were required. That was all right, for they were forest folk and knew the way. But no stranger ever came in without an escort and a blindfold. Those foolish enough to try, simply disappeared. The forest protected her own better than any fortress wall.

The folk of our own settlement, those who worked Lord Colum’s home farm and tended his beasts, had their small dwellings on the edge of the open ground, where a stream splashed down to turn the mill wheel. Every day I would make my way along the track to these cottages to tend to the sick. The crossbred wolfhound, Linn, was my constant companion, for on Cormack’s departure she had attached herself to me, padding along quietly behind me wherever I went. At any possible threat, a voice raised in anger, a pig crossing the track in search of acorns, she would place herself on an instant between me and the danger, growling fiercely. Autumn was advancing fast, and the weather had turned bleak. Rain ran down the thatch, turning the path into a quagmire. Conor had overseen some repairs on the most ancient of the cottages, a precarious structure of wattle and clay, and Old Tom, who lived there with his tribe of children and grandchildren, had come out to wring my hand with gratitude when I passed by earlier.

“Sure and your brother’s a true saint,” he half sobbed, “and you along with him, girl. One of the wise ones, like his father might have been, that’s young Conor. Not a drip in the place, and the peat all cut and dried for hard times.”