Dufach was about to reply when Grim got up abruptly, mumbled something, and bolted out of the chamber. “Excuse me,” I said, and followed him; I knew those signs all too well. He wasn’t in the hallway. He wasn’t in our bedchamber. I went outside to find him doubled over in the yard near the privy, bringing up his breakfast with some violence.

I drew water from the well; filled the cup that stood on the rim and brought it to him. “Should’ve told me you were feeling sick.”

“Be fine in a bit. Nothing wrong with me.” He straightened, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, accepted the water and drank. He was shivering.

“I’m a better judge of that than you are. If you were my patient I’d order you back to bed. You look appalling.” I surveyed him as I would any person showing signs of illness. “Though not quite as bad as you did before. Sometimes all it takes is to empty your stomach.”

“Waste of a good breakfast.” He drank again, then went to refill the cup. “I’m all right.”

“We’ll see. Sit down awhile. That came on rather suddenly.”

“I’ll be fine. I said so.”

There was no arguing with Grim on this sort of thing. There was no leaving him behind if he believed he should be with me. So I went off to collect a basket from the kitchen, and a few provisions in case we got hungry while gathering herbs, and when Flannan reappeared with his belongings the four of us set off together: the scholar and the monk, the so-called wise woman and . . . If this were an old tale, what name would I give Grim? The bodyguard? The companion? The protector, the keeper? The friend? He was all of those and more.

It seemed that one bout of vomiting had rid his stomach of whatever had disturbed it. But he still looked pale, and there was a tightness about his features. I’d seen Flannan eat the same breakfast as Grim, but he had not been visited by the same sudden sickness. Whatever had caused it, it was not the food.

The path to St. Olcan’s led up a rise, under a fine stand of old oaks. We passed under an arching canopy of green. Ripple danced along beside us, making short forays from the path when interesting smells drew her attention. It would have been a lovely walk, had it not been for the creature’s voice, ringing through the woods, piteous and terrible in its sorrow. The sound not only assaulted the ears, it crept into the very bones.

As he walked, Brother Dufach recited a prayer under his breath; at least, I assumed it was a prayer. My knowledge of Latin was limited to what I needed as an herbalist and healer. Since I had given up believing in gods of any kind, I would not use prayer to distract me from that dreadful voice, not even a form of prayer that had once had meaning for me. And it might seem insulting to the monk if I suggested we tell a story. The look on Grim’s face was worrying me. It was bringing back memories I had no wish to revisit.