I’d been wondering how we were going to shift Flannan’s body to the grave. That, I was sure these folk could not manage, and I didn’t want Grim trying to do it. But he was quick with a solution.

“Got a rope, haven’t we?” he said, eyeing the shrouded body. “And horses? Just tie the right knots and it’s easy. Undignified, yes. But easy. Not planning to damage myself anymore. Not for a man who tried to kill you.”

“And you.”

“That too. I’ll show you the knots now if you want.”

• • •

One day of rest. After breakfast the fey healer inspected Grim’s shoulder wound and then the swelling on his head. He responded to her questions with a series of expressive grunts, since her presence seemed to render him mute. She told me I’d done good work, then opened her own healer’s bag and constructed her own dressing, complete with a mash of various powdered herbs.

While she was applying this I went off, at her suggestion, to gather herbs useful for controlling pain and banishing ill humors. Grim would need a headache draft. By the time I got back the little woman was in animated conversation with Grim. When I came close she waved me away. I was fairly sure they were talking about me.

The small folk finished digging the grave, and with the assistance of the rope, two horses and a lot of conflicting suggestions, we got Flannan into it. The fey ones formed a circle all around. Grim leaned against one of the horses, his arm across its back. Everyone seemed to be waiting.

I was the wise woman. This was my job. But I couldn’t find the right words, not this time. I’d lost my belief in gods long ago. And right now, I couldn’t think of one good thing to say about the dead man. The silence drew out.

“We give this man back to the earth.” It was Grim’s deep voice, steady and sure. “He did some bad things in his life. Some good too, maybe. But he lost his way. Could be he’ll just rot down and help something grow. Not such a bad end, that. Could be he’ll walk down a new path and find a better way.”

• • •

The wee folk stayed close for most of the day. Whatever the small healer had done to Grim’s injuries—I was sure that had been no ordinary dressing—he returned to something like his old self with truly astonishing speed. I made up enough of the headache draft to see us back to Cahercorcan and its well-stocked stillroom.

I snatched an opportunity, later, to speak with the fey healer on her own. Grim was at the center of a group of very small men. They were engrossed in some activity that involved tying knots in stalks of grass.

We were by the fire, she and I. I thanked her for her care of Grim. She observed that he seemed worth saving. I thanked her for the ogham messages and apologized for being so slow to understand. I asked if the king had survived his ordeal in the thorn hedge.