“Mm-hm.” Not saying any more than that. I put my share of the wool wadding in my pouch. Blackthorn’s right about sorrow walking beside us. Surprised to hear her speak up about it, though. Got a weight of bad memories, the two of us. Doubt if a wailing monster could make it much heavier.

Lady Geiléis signs to her men to ride on, and we all move forward. I’m behind the lady. Her back’s stiff. Angry, but holding it in. Or upset. Because she hasn’t blocked her ears any more than Blackthorn and me have. She’s hearing what we’re hearing. And that’s a sound that’s getting sadder with every step the horses take. My animal’s shivering under me. And Ripple doesn’t want to walk on; Flannan has to keep calling her. Why didn’t we block their ears? I want to ask, but I don’t. Didn’t the lady say, in her story, about cows dropping dead calves? Stock wandering into the river and getting drowned? But maybe these riding horses are used to it, same as the men. Not the animals we’ve brought from Cahercorcan, though. Seems a bit cruel to put them through it.

We get down the hill, ears full of the wailing, and the escort picks up the pace. Light’s starting to fade. Nightmares in my head. Finding Blackthorn’s red kerchief neatly folded on my bed and thinking she was gone forever. Our house burning. Hearing her screams and thinking she was trapped inside. And farther back, Strangler and the other lads and that place of Mathuin’s. The stink, the sounds, the pain, the dark. The way I failed the others.

Blackthorn hasn’t blocked her ears, so I’m not blocking mine. Job to be done. Need to match her, help her. Listening. Solving a puzzle. Back in Mathuin’s lockup, when the bad things got too loud, I shut them out with words. Worked sometimes. Not always. I try it now. Keep my voice down, though the monster’s making enough racket to drown out anything. Dominus regit me, et in loco pascuæ id . . . ib . . . ibi me collocavit. Funny how it comes back. Been a long time. Still there, though, tucked away inside. Super aquam refectionis educavit me. Steady and soothing, the words are. Even when a man’s long ago lost his faith in gods.

Maybe Flannan’s ears aren’t stopped up tight enough. Keeps glancing over at me. I drop my voice to a whisper. Nam, et si ambulavero in medio umbræ mortis, non timebo mala: quoniam tu mecum es. Walking in the shadow of death. Been there. Know it like I know my right hand. Feel myself shivering; make myself breathe strong, be the man I should be. Should have been. Et misericordia tua subsequetur me omnibus diebus vitæ meæ. Mercy. Fine thing. Wish I could believe in it. Tears in my eyes. Stupid fool.

Getting darker. The monster’s voice is not so much of a wail now. Sounds more like a child who’s been crying so long he’s all out of strength. Harsh, rasping sort of sound. Sobbing. Like he’s defeated, giving up. Makes my throat hurt to hear it. For just a bit, I wonder if this monster’s not yelling threats and curses, but calling out Help! In my head there’s a little boy fallen down a well, or shut up in the dark, or stuck up a tree with night coming, and nobody to hear him.