“He’s sick,” I said. “He’s scared. And I’m here to help him. Besides, I was told…” I broke off.

Finbar’s gaze sharpened. “Told what?”

I could not lie. “Told that this was something I must do. Just the first step on a long and difficult path. I know I have to do it.”

“Who told you this, Sorcha?” asked Father Brien gently. They were both staring at me intently now. I chose my words with care.

“You remember Conor’s old story, the one about Deirdre, Lady of the Forest? I think it was her.”

Father Brien drew his breath in sharply. “You have seen Them?”

“I think so,” I said, surprised. Whatever reaction I had expected from him, it was not this. “She told me this was my path, and I must keep to it. I’m sorry, Finbar.”

“This Briton,” said Finbar slowly. “He is not the first I have met, or spoken with. The others, though, were older men, more hardened, and at the same time simpler. They were glad enough to take their freedom and go. This one plays games, he toys with us and relishes our confusion. If indeed you have received such an instruction, you have no choice but to obey; yet I can hardly believe this boy means you no harm. I am not happy to leave you here, and I think Conor would agree with me.” He twisted a lock of hair between his fingers. The color had returned to his face, but his mouth was grim.

I stared at him. “Why should Conor decide?” I asked. “He may be in charge, for now, but he’s only sixteen.”

“Conor is old beyond his years,” said Father Brien in his measured way. “In that, he resembles the two of you. He too has a path set out for him. You have, perhaps, taken this brother for granted; the quiet one, with his steady reliability, his kindness and fairness, his fund of knowledge. But you know him less well than you think.”

“He does seem to know a lot of odd things,” I said. “Things that surprise you.”

“Like the Ogham,” said Finbar quietly. “The signs, and where to find them, and how to read their meaning. What we know of that we learned from Conor.”

“But where did he learn it?” I said. “Not from any book, I know that much.”

“Conor is expert in a number of matters,” said Father Brien, gazing out of his small window. The late afternoon sun caught the wisps of graying hair that fringed his calm brow, turning them to a flaming aureole. “Some he learned from me, as the rest of you did. Some he taught himself from the manuscripts gathering dust in your father’s library; as did you, Sorcha, with your cures and your herb lore. You will find, as you grow older, that as well as this knowledge Conor has other, more subtle skills; he carries ancient crafts that belong to your line, but which have been largely forgotten in today’s world. You see the village people, how they revere him. It is true that in your father’s absence Conor is a good steward, and they acknowledge that with due thanks. But their recognition of him goes far deeper.”