“Conor was sure?” I said, taken aback. “Conor knew about the boy? But—”

“You need not trouble yourself about Conor,” said Father Brien. “He will not betray your secret.”

We turned under a rock wall and he drew the horse to an abrupt halt. He swung himself down and reached to help me.

“I hope, while you are here, that we can talk of a number of things. But let us tend to this boy, first of all. And you can decide for yourself what you can do, and what you cannot.”

The air inside the cave was heavy with the smell of curative herbs. My nose told me he’d been burning a mixture to keep the boy longer in the peace of an oblivious sleep; calamint for protection and courage, thyme to keep night terrors away. Also, harder to detect, the spores of a plant we called wolf’s claw, and I wondered how he’d known about that one, the use of which was extremely dangerous. A person could not be left under its influence for too long. Wake the sleeper must, and confront his fears, or risk being lost in the dark places of the mind forever.

The outer cave was cool and dry, with openings high in the rock walls. This was Father Brien’s healing place. There were many shelves, crowded with dried herbs and spices, bowls and jars and neat piles of folded cloth. A pair of huge oak planks, supported by great stones, served as a working table. An inner chamber opened off this orderly space, and here there was a straw pallet on which lay his charge, rolled deep in a blanket and curled up on himself in protection. Father Brien himself ate and slept in the tiny stone cottage, little more than a cell, nestled under rowan trees not far from the cave mouth. He looked as if he hadn’t had much sleep recently; his eyes were deeply shadowed.

“The burns are healing well,” said Father Brien softly. “He had some internal injuries; with those I did what I could. They’ll mend well enough in time. The fever was bad, but I brought it down with sponging and white oak infusions. At the height of it, he spoke much, and revealed more of himself than he would have perhaps wished. But he understands where he is now, and keeps his mouth shut most of the time, even when I speak to him in his own tongue. He does not take kindly to my prayers, or to my good advice. And twice I have stopped him from seeking some instrument to destroy himself, or me. He is still very weak, but not so weak that he could not do some harm, given the opportunity.” He stifled a huge yawn. “You may like to rest until he wakes; then we shall see.”

I scrutinized the hermit’s serene face, now pallid with tiredness.

“He won’t wake for a while yet,” I said, glancing at the cocooned figure. “Let me sit here with him, and you go and get some sleep.”