We moved down the hillside into the brightness, following the narrow pathway. It was becoming quite clear that if we were to advance further into this realm, it would be done according to someone else’s rules. The dazzling veil retreated just far enough for us to keep going, but not to see what lay around us. It had been much the same crossing the river, when the way ahead had been revealed while the bank behind us was curtained. I didn’t like it, and I could see Cathal felt the same way. There was a tightness about his jaw that told me he would far rather be finding his own path. Very possibly we were being led straight into some kind of trap. In the sling, Becan slumbered peacefully. His profound trust filled me with unease.

The ground leveled. Around our feet, now, plants grew between the stones, low, green-gray, aromatic. The place smelled like an herb garden. The scent brought a vivid memory of myself as a young girl, in the kitchen at Sevenwaters with Mother, learning the best way to make vegetable broth: Mother’s cloud of red hair shining in a ray of sun from the window; well-scoured pots and pans gleaming on their hooks; my eyes watering as I chopped onions. Bunches of dried herbs were hanging overhead, rosemary, lavender, thyme, and a selection of fresh leaves lay on the chopping block before me. Good, Clodagh, said my mother, and my heart warmed. You have a real flair for this.

I stumbled on a rock, blinking back tears. The haze had dimmed slightly and Cathal had picked up his pace, striding along ahead of me. He forgot how much shorter my legs were than his. I scurried after him, one arm curved around Becan.

The smell grew stronger. It filled my nostrils, my throat, my lungs. My head began to swim. I was falling behind again. My legs felt suddenly weak; my body demanded rest. Every part of me protested: too far, too fast, too long . . . Sit down . . . Lie down . . . Sleep . . .

Up ahead, Cathal staggered. He took two more paces, then dropped to one knee, a hand to his brow. His cloak dragged on the ground, brushing the low plants and releasing a still more powerful wave of that soporific aroma. I heard his voice as if in a dream.

“Clodagh? Clodagh, where are you?”

It seemed an immense effort to answer him. “Here,” I called, but my voice came out as a murmur, for I could not fill my lungs with air. Something weighed me down. Something pressed on my eyelids; I could not keep them open. Becan was so heavy . . . If I untied the sling I could put him down for a while. I must rest . . .