I did not go out into the infirmary. I stayed quietly on my bed, wondering what Ciarán would think best under the circumstances. How would my wise mentor interpret Svala’s vision? Perhaps he would think it best that I told Johnny before Ardal. The answers lie within you, Sibeal. I could almost hear him saying it. Ciarán never told me what to do. On occasion he would remind me that the skills I had learned in the nemetons would help me find my own solutions. It was the druid way. Sometimes, when the voices of the gods were silent, it felt profoundly lonely.

When it was time, I went to supper. After we had eaten, the musicians played, and I told the tale of Deirdre and Naoise, which is a sad love story. And after that, Kalev was persuaded to step up and give us a tale from his homeland, a strange, violent tale about a girl who married a snake. I congratulated him afterward and made him blush again. When I got back to the infirmary, Ardal was already asleep.

Something jolted me awake. I sat up, my heart pounding. All was silent. Had I heard the door creak a moment ago? Or was it only the wind? No: beyond my curtain, I could hear stealthy footsteps on the infirmary floor. A chill sense of wrongness filled me, leaving no room for the obvious explanations—Gull heading out to the privy, Ardal wakeful and restless. I slid out of bed and snatched up my shawl. As I drew the curtain aside, a voice screamed in my mind: Help!

The place was in near darkness, the fire damped down, the lamps quenched, the candles snuffed out. There was just sufficient light to show me an amorphous dark mass where the sleeping figure of Ardal should be; something was moving, struggling, and I heard a sound of stifled pain. A wash of feelings flowed through me: shock, terror, desperation, hatred. A fierce will for survival; a dark need to kill. Two men were locked in a ferocious struggle. One of them was dying. I felt the juddering, halting heartbeat in my own breast. He was fading away, leaving me forever . . .

I flung myself across the chamber, taking in the attacker’s flaxen hair, his awkward stance with one knee up on the pallet, his fingers on Ardal’s neck, pressing hard. I grabbed his arm, trying to haul him off. He was like a rock, immovable. “Gull!” I screamed. “Gull, help!”