The tunic was done. I folded it neatly and put it back in the basket. I got up and stretched, glancing at the sky and trying to judge how much time had passed. I walked around the pathway, stooping to examine the heart’s blood plant. Buds were developing, their tight-furled forms barely hinting at the brilliant color to come. Within a turning of the moon, the blooms would be ready for harvest. There was a lean-to building against the garden wall, a low stone structure that I assumed might hold tools, including perhaps equipment for distillation and decoction; an herbalist like Irial must have had such paraphernalia. I’d never seen the place open; the door was bolted. Perhaps nobody had used it since his time. I entertained a brief vision of myself in there, making a perfect batch of heart’s blood ink. Then I returned to sit on the bench, thinking how long ago that day seemed when Anluan had accepted my wager.
“You appear agitated, Caitrin.” Muirne’s voice was calm as a millpond. “Are you having second thoughts about this plan?”
“Of course not!” I snapped, my fraying nerves getting the better of me. “The plan makes good sense. Everyone agreed to it.”
The dog ignored me, scrambling up to stand alert, the warning growls becoming barks of challenge. Alerted by the sound, Gearróg came along the path towards us. “What is it—aaaghh!” His words were lost in a groan of pain as he crumpled to his knees, his spear falling with a metallic clang to the stones of the path. He doubled up, shielding his head with his hands. His chest heaved; a powerful shaking possessed his body.
I jumped to my feet, mending forgotten. “Gearróg, what’s the matter, what’s wrong?” He was in terrible pain, hunched over and moaning. Fianchu began to whine, as if he, too, was in agony. A moment later, as I was crouched beside Gearróg, trying to get him to kneel up, the big dog bolted out through the archway and off into the forest. “Muirne, help me!” My guard’s body was seized by retching spasms; he fought for breath. “Fetch someone, quickly! We need help!”
No answer. I glanced frantically over towards the seat, but nobody was there. During the commotion, it seemed Muirne had slipped away from the garden.
“Gearróg, I’ll get help.Try to lift your head, here . . .”
Gearróg swung out suddenly, catching me across the arm and chest. I went sprawling backwards onto the flagstones, jarring hip and elbow.“Stop, make it stop!” he yelled. “Keep away! No! No!” The arm swung again. I ducked my head to avoid it. His eyes were wild. Whatever he was seeing, it surely wasn’t me.
My heart hammering, I got onto one knee.Try to help him or run away as fast as I could? He swiped the air, then clapped his hands over his ears. His features were twisted in a grimace of agony.“Make it stop!” he screamed.
Somewhere out in the forest Fianchu was barking. I crouched just out of Gearróg’s reach.
“Gearróg, it’s Caitrin.” I hardly knew my own voice, it was shaking so much.“Caitrin, you remember? I’m trying to help you. Just hold on a little longer. I’m going to fetch someone—”
Shouts broke out on the walkway, not warnings of coming danger but cries of pain. I looked up. Men were staggering, falling, clutching onto whatever they could find to stop themselves from a long drop to the courtyard. Weapons clattered down as hands lost their grip. Two men were at each other’s throats, fingers squeezing, legs braced, eyes bulging. Another snatched up a fallen knife and charged along the narrow way, screaming.
“Muirne!” I yelled. “Muirne, where are you? I need help!” A warrior leaped up onto the parapet, spreading his arms as if to launch himself into flight, and there was Cathaír, seizing the man’s leg, shouting, “No, you fool! Hold fast! Hold fast, all of you!” One of the monks was cowering in a corner, trying to fend off a big fellow with an axe. Dear God, what was this?
