When the bandage was done to my satisfaction I draped my blanket around his shoulders. Used the rest of the hot water to make a brew. Splashed a generous amount of mead into his cup and handed it to him. “Now Father Tomas would really be offended,” I said, sitting down beside him and realizing, now that I had done what had to be done, that the night was still freezing cold. The fire’s warmth was a blessing; its light in the darkness was indeed good.

“Nah,” Grim said. “He’d understand.” There was a pause; then he said, “Thanks for the brew.”

“You lie down. I’ll keep watch. I know I won’t be able to sleep. In the morning we can work out what to do next.”

“If you say so.” He lay down, failing to conceal how painful the process was. “Still got your blanket.” It was wrapped around him. “You’ll be needing it.”

“Keep it. If I get cold I’ll put your cloak on.”

“It’s wet.”

“Stop talking, shut your eyes and go to sleep, big man.”

“If you say so . . .” He was dropping off even as he spoke.

For a long while I simply sat there with my empty cup in my hands, listening to the sounds of the woodland at night and looking at the flames. What had happened felt too big to take in. It was a tale of cowardice and courage, intrigue and simple goodness, choices that were complicated mixtures of right and wrong. It wasn’t just us—Grim and me and Flannan. We were small parts in the terrible story of Mathuin of Laois; we were parts of the tragic tale of Lily and Ash and the household that had clung on for two hundred years, waiting for us. And when we went back to Cahercorcan, we’d once again be part of the tale of Oran and Flidais and the baby yet to be born, a child who could be king one day.

There was another, older tale. It belonged in these woods, and in the forest all around the Tower of Thorns, and in our own woodland back at Winterfalls. The tale of the small folk, as stoic as Senach and the others. The curse had compelled them to stay and to help. Despite that compulsion, they had tended to Ash with kindness. They had handled his remains, and Geiléis’s, with tender respect. Perhaps, over the long trial they had endured together, the wee folk had grown to love Ash, and he them. I found myself wishing I had known him.

The first traces of dawn light were visible in the sky when there was a rustling close by. My fingers fastened around the ax. I rose silently to my feet.

A polite little cough to one side. A clearing of the throat to the other. I lowered my weapon as a group of small cloaked personages emerged from under the trees to come up to the fire. Grim slept on; Father Tomas’s mead was potent.