No books on the floor beneath the shelf; nothing at all of Irial’s. Smoke wrapped me in a clinging shawl; I could no longer see the open doorway. I fumbled blindly towards the place where I had piled up the grimoires. My head felt odd. I could see patterns in the smoke, faces with gaping mouths, hands with rending claws . . .“Muirne,” I whispered, or maybe I only spoke in my mind.
I fell to my knees and crept forwards. Every instinct told me not to breathe, but I had to, and with every breath my chest hurt more.
I reached the stack of books and collapsed beside it, eyes stinging, chest heaving. Dimly, I registered surprise that I could see no flames in the library, only the dense, choking cloud of smoke. My hands fastened around a book; one seemed to be all I had the strength to lift. Now out, out into the garden and fresh air . . . Which way? I turned my head, but the place was full of the suffocating blanket. Where was the door? My head reeled; the smoke swirled around me. I couldn’t seem to catch my breath.
I dropped the grimoire and began to crawl, trying to feel my way out. The leg of a table. A box—the chest holding Nechtan’s wretched mirror. My head struck something hard: the bench. A chair. A smaller table. Not far now.
The door slammed shut. The air seemed to tremble around me. The smoke thickened. I covered the last distance on my belly, retching, feeling the poison seep into my lungs. I clawed my way up the wall, clutching for the iron bar that held the door closed. I wrenched at it. Why wouldn’t it move? Why were my hands so weak? Around me everything dimmed, as if the day was already over. My fingers could not hold on to the latch.
Orifting. Dizzy. Sounds coming and going, lancing through my head. Voices, muffled. A clanking of metal. Trying to swim up . . . A heaviness holding me down.
“Don’t move, Caitrin.You’re safe. Lie still.”
His voice.Tears running down my face. Every breath a little mountain to be climbed, a new test of courage.
“You’re safe, Caitrin. Don’t try to move.”
No breath to speak.There was something I had to say, but all that came out was a croak. “Books . . .”
His hand against my cheek, warm, strong. “As if the books mattered,” he said.
“Tell . . .”
“The books are safe. Don’t try to talk. If you can, take a sip of water. Here.”
A cup at my lips. Sip, swallow. Fire. Pain. Something wrong with me.
“Lie back, Caitrin. I’m here, and so is Magnus. Rest now.”
“. . . hold . . .”
His fingers laced themselves through mine. I turned my head against the pillow and fell back into the dark.
Swimming up again, not so slow this time. Eyes open. Beams, stones, spider webs. A man in a blue cloak riding into battle; a hound at the horse’s heels. A little draft stirred the embroidered panel. Dust danced in lantern light. My own chamber, and late in the day. Nobody holding my hand, but someone in the room with me. I turned my head. Magnus was sitting on a stool a few paces away, a big sword across his knees. He had a cloth in his hand, and was polishing the blade. A blood-red glint in the shining metal. Signs of war.
“Magnus.” My voice crackled like an old woman’s. “Can I have some water?” It still hurt to breathe, but maybe not so much as before.
His hand lightly against my back, steadying me as he reorganized the pillows.The cup at my lips again. I drank deep, relishing the coolness. My throat felt as rough as dry leather.
“It’ll hurt for a while.”The big man’s tone was matter-of-fact.“Smoke does that.You’ve been lucky, Caitrin. Seems you somehow locked yourself in. Gearróg broke the door down.We got back just as he was carrying you out.” It was clear to me that Magnus did not believe this fairly simple account of what had happened.
“Anluan?”Why wasn’t he here? Had I imagined those soft words, that gentle touch?
“You’ve had quite a few folk anxious over your state of health, and him more than anyone. I packed him off to rest. He didn’t go willingly.”
“Magnus, what . . .” It seemed an immense effort to ask; there was so much I needed to know.
