“It is almost winter,” said Conor quietly. “Out of winter’s darkness comes spring’s light. Out of winter’s sleep is born spring’s new life. We cannot be without hope, not when this truth is shown us year by year.”

But the others said nothing, and after a while each of us touched a hand to the tree’s pale bark, and made a quiet way home again.

Not all were happy simply to pick up the pieces and start again. It was too much for Diarmid to bear, that our stepmother had fled the forest unchecked, apparently unscathed, taking her infant with her. She must be punished, must be made to pay for what she had done. Without due vengeance, the tale was not finished, the pattern not completed. Liam and Conor tried to reason with him. What was done could not be undone, Conor said. He must let go his anger, and start to rebuild. It wasn’t as if there were no other outlet for his energies. But Diarmid was adamant. She must pay. The sorceress must pay. Why did they not go forth, and seek her out, and exact the price?

He remained on a knife-edge of anger, and took it out on his opponents in the practice yard. He fought with a frightening intensity, apparently heedless of his own safety. Whenever a bout involved Diarmid, you could see Donal hovering close by, watching every move; and that was just as well.

Finbar did not venture out to the settlement often, for folk would follow him and reach out to touch the soft feathers of that great shining wing, as if it were a talisman; and he shrank from any touch, as if something of the wild creature still lived deep within him. I feared for him, and did not know how to help him.

Conor made an inventory of the meager stores. He cast his eye over the remaining livestock, the state of the home farms, the disrepair of cottages and barns. He rode out to the other settlements to ensure the loyalty of the tenants there, to check the state of herds and flocks, and on Liam’s behalf, to arrange the manning of outer guard posts. But he was unusually abstracted, spending much of his time standing at a window looking out over the forest; as if he were waiting for something. Some days he would simply disappear, to return late in the evening without explanation. And he received his own visitors; ancient, robed figures, and young men with old eyes. He spoke to them in private, out-of-doors, and afterward he would be very quiet, as if his thoughts were in some distant place far from Sevenwaters.