It was the seventh day, and we were coming close to the keep of Sevenwaters. Between the bare branches of the willows the waters of the lake glinted bright, and ducks dabbled in the shallows. It was very quiet.

“There are no scouts,” said Liam grimly. “No forward posts. Any man could ride in here unchallenged. What can he be thinking of?”

We emerged from the margin of the trees behind the settlement, and my heart lurched in shock. Beyond the walled fields and the cottages, beyond the stone-walled keep, on the hill once clothed in graceful birch, strong ash and noble oak, a great scar lay across the landscape, where a stand of the oldest trees had been felled and burned. Not a scrap of life was left there, no bold holly tree nor branching hawthorn to soften the wound. Behind me, Conor began to chant softly, a lament whose words I could not understand, but whose message went straight to the spirit.

“Wanton destruction,” said Liam. “An act of sheer willfulness, with no intent but harm. They have not even put the wood to use, but burned it where it lay.”

We walked through the village, where the track had become rutted and bogged, and folk had a weary, pinched look about them. But these were our own people, people who knew the thin line between this world and the other. All of them had seen a cousin taken by the folk under the hill, or known of a strange child found under a nettle bush, or spoken to one who had ventured too far into a cave or walked into a ring of mushrooms by moonlight. There were no probing questions, no narrowed eyes or looks of distrust. Instead, they came out with faces wreathed in smiles, and hands outstretched in welcome. Only when they looked at Finbar did they fall silent, and that was a silence of deep respect.

“Master Liam! Master Conor! You’ve come home!” Niall the miller strode forward to clap Liam on the back.

And Paddy the pig man, grinning from ear to ear, gripped one brother’s hand after another, exclaiming, “Sure and you’ve returned at last! Didn’t I say they’d be back, Mary, didn’t I say it now?”

And before I’d gone three steps up the track, the granddaughter of Old Tom was taking me by the arm, and leading me into his cottage to listen to the old man’s wheezing chest. I promised an infusion of balsam and peppermint to ease his breathing.

“And a fire,” I added. “It’s freezing in here. You must light a fire.”

But there was no dry wood, and no men from up yonder to help cut and store it. This year the crops had not been good; rot had set in with the heavy autumn rains. Little had been stricken for the long cold season ahead. The flock had been stricken with the sheep murrain, and there had been heavy losses.

“What of our father?” asked Conor, his dark brows drawn together in a frown. “Has he made no provision for your well-being these last winters? Is there no factor to oversee the harvest, no steward to send supplies to those that are in hardship?”