Back Dreamer's Pool
Chapters (51)
  1. Cover
  2. About Dreamer's Pool
  3. Title page
  4. Contents
  5. Dedication
  6. Character List
  7. 1 Blackthorn
  8. 2 Grim
  9. 3 Oran
  10. 4 Blackthorn
  11. 5 Grim
  12. 6 Oran
  13. 7 Blackthorn
  14. 8 Grim
  15. 9 Oran
  16. 10 Blackthorn
  17. 11 Grim
  18. 12 Oran
  19. 13 Blackthorn
  20. 14 Oran
  21. 15 Blackthorn
  22. 16 Oran
  23. 17 Blackthorn
  24. 18 Grim
  25. 19 Oran
  26. 20 Blackthorn
  27. 21 Grim
  28. 22 Oran
  29. 23 Grim
  30. 24 Blackthorn
  31. 25 Oran
  32. 26 Grim
  33. 27 Blackthorn
  34. 28 Grim
  35. 29 Oran
  36. 30 Blackthorn
  37. 31 Grim
  38. 32 Blackthorn
  39. 33 Oran
  40. 34 Grim
  41. 35 Blackthorn
  42. 36 Grim
  43. 37 Oran
  44. 38 Blackthorn
  45. 39 Oran
  46. 40 Grim
  47. 41 Blackthorn
  48. Acknowledgments
  49. About Juliet Marillier
  50. Also by Juliet Marillier
  51. Copyright page

‘We departed in haste,’ said the dark-haired attendant. ‘Under the circumstances, our riding skills weighed more than our abilities to dress hair or mend garments. Ciar was a good rider.’

But not such a good swimmer, I thought, if she drowned so quickly. The cry for help could not have been hers, or surely I would have reached the pool to find her still alive. I had brought folk back from near-drowning before, folk who had stopped breathing but still had a pulse. Ciar had been well past that point.

I turned my attention back to Lady Flidais, who was taking reluctant sips of the draught. There was a little more colour in her cheeks now. ‘You left home in a hurry, my lady?’ I asked, not because I wanted to know, but to get her talking again. Cloud Hill, they’d said. Why did that name sound familiar?

‘My . . . my father’s holdings are under threat,’ Flidais whispered. ‘We had to get away quickly, yes. I don’t want to talk about it.’

An awkward silence ensued. The lady sipped her drink. Her attendants had run out of things to say, or at least, things they were prepared to say in my presence. That didn’t stop them having a good look: at the sleeping arrangements, at the bundles of drying herbs and the plaits of garlic and onions hanging from the roof, at the jars and bottles and bags containing various substances I used in my craft. At the boxes Grim had made to hold my supplies, with their carved lids, and the basket he’d woven for firewood. At the neat pegs to hold clothing, the well-scrubbed hearth, the rush-strewn floor. Whatever these ladies might think of me, nobody was going to say I was a slattern. A healer kept things orderly; couldn’t do her job otherwise. When wise women appeared in the old tales, they were often toothless hags living in caves festooned with dangling bones and full of wriggling things in jars. As hags went, I was a youngish one, and though I had lost a tooth or two in that place, I could still bite hard. If my story was ever told by the fireside, it wouldn’t send folk to bed with good dreams.