“That, of course, was only a small part of the story. The Chief was sunk in darkness; Liadan brought him light. She healed him, body and spirit. But we all played our part, Ardal. As he lay locked in his nightmare, we all found something of hope in our past, something he had given us, and we spoke to him of that. We reminded him that he was not an outcast, a wretch, a piece of rubbish thrown on the scrap heap, but a man of worth and goodness, a man whose courage shone from him, a man who always thought of others before himself.” Gull’s white teeth flashed in a sudden smile. “All this is his doing: this island; this school; this place of community and purpose. Though, of course, he’s left it in his son’s hands. The Chief and Liadan, they’ve moved on. Sometimes, when Bran visits Inis Eala, I get the feeling he’d rather still be here. Still, a man does what he’s called to do. And that’s the end of my story. Liadan saved Bran from captivity and death. Sibeal rescued you from the sea. But for her, you’d have perished that night. They’re exceptional folk in the Sevenwaters family. Johnny carries on his father’s traditions here, which means you can trust him, and you can trust me. If there’s something in the past that you don’t want to remember, something difficult, just know that if ever there was a place where a man can make a fresh start, Inis Eala is that place. As long as you tell the truth, nobody will judge you.”

“I remember nothing,” Ardal whispered. “Nothing at all.”

CHAPTER 6

~Felix~

It is night. Gull’s sleep is a warrior’s; he would wake in an instant. From Sibeal’s chamber, silence. I picture her deep in slumber, the clear eyes closed, the sweet mouth in repose. Her dark hair rippling down across the covers that blanket her slight form. A druid, committed to a lifelong journey of the spirit. I have encountered druids before, I think. But none like her.

It is night and I am awake. Somewhere beyond these walls there is a man who would kill me for my memories. It was no idle threat; his eyes were like hard frost. What is it he fears so?

I have nothing to tell, nothing of any account. My mind is a shell, empty save for a rattle of old images. Noz, my dog. A row of olive trees. A cart on a dusty road. And now, as I lie here in the dark with eyes wide open, a bog, a mist, a stirring of the uncanny.