named Ailbe.”
“The Healer?” said the barman. He looked ready to say more, but was interrupted.
“And what is it you’ll be wanting her for?” asked a man who was slouching in the corner. He was a lean, raw-boned fellow, with a battered face and the green and brown clothes of a woodsman.
“It’s a private matter,” said Thomas.
Eyebrows raised around the room and a few snickers came from various corners. Thomas looked over the room, certain that they had suddenly become the butt of a joke. Several folks were whispering behind their hands to one another, and others were taking long, appraising looks at the three friends. Thomas turned back to Eileen and George, his eyebrows raised. Both shrugged, equally mystified.
“Many folks see her on private matters,” said the woodsman. “But she doesn’t see anyone at night. You’ll have to wait until morning.”
“It really can’t wait,” said Thomas. “It’s important.”
“To you, I’m sure,” the woodsman glanced over Eileen and George, “but not to her.”
“To her, actually,” said Thomas, starting to be irritated. “I’ve news for her.”
“News?” the old man at the next table perked up. “What news?”
A ripple of words went through the room, and Thomas felt the crowd’s attitude change back to what it had been before.
Odd,
Thomas thought. “News I’d feel more comfortable relaying to her first,” said Thomas. “If someone can tell me where she is.”
“Bad news,” declared the old man, nodding his head. “Got to be bad news, with an answer like that.”
“Is it?” asked the woodsman.
“Aye,” said Thomas, and his tone made the woodsman sit up straighter. “It’s important I talk to her tonight. Can you tell me where she lives?”
“I can take you,” said the woodsman. “As soon as you’re done your food.”
Whispers went around the tavern again, but no amusement accompanied them. A woman came with three plates of fish—one with a double portion—and the three friends dug in. The fish was very good, and George, despite the double portion, had his plate cleared before Thomas was half-way through.
George sat back from the table, took a pull of his beer and turned to the other patrons, “Say, has the bishop come through, yet?”
“The bishop?” repeated the bartender. “Why would he be coming here?”
“I don’t know the why,” said George, “but he left Elmvale two days ago, heading in this direction.”
“The bishop,” the barman repeated. “Imagine that.”
The crowd buzzed over that for a while, wondering at the bishop coming to their town and reminiscing over the last time a bishop visited. Several folks asked questions about the bishop’s intentions, but George could only honestly reply that he had no idea. Thomas, feeling very grateful to his friend for bringing the subject up, dug into his fish. If the bishop had not yet come, there was still a chance.
A chance for what?
came the unbidden thought.
You don’t even know if the bishop’s after her.
As soon as they had finished eating, Thomas was on his feet, putting his sword back on. He left some coins on the table then turned to the woodsman. “Can we go?”
“Aye, we’ll go.” The woodsman put down his beer, and stood. “Come on, then.”
The four trouped out of the inn and into the town. The sun was gone, and a layer of clouds was hiding any light from moon or stars. The woodsman moved unerringly, as if the darkness was a close friend and dancing partner. The three friends didn’t fare as well, stumbling down the rough road behind him.
The woodsman kept a brisk pace, quickly passing out of the town and into the wood beyond. Thomas dogged his heels, afraid he’d be completely lost if they dropped the slightest bit behind. The journey was short, fortunately, and the path was mercifully clear of branches or roots, which meant that Thomas only stumbled a few times before they stepped into a small clearing.
It wasn’t until they were half-way across that Thomas could make out the cabin—small and stone with a thatch roof and a covered wooden porch across the front. It was completely dark. The woodsman strode up to the porch, leaving Thomas and his friends waiting in the clearing. He knocked at the door, waited for an answer, and when none was forthcoming, knocked again.
“She should be home,” he said “It’s early yet and she’s not usually out at night.”
“Unless she’s harvesting moonwart,” an amused female voice said. The four turned around and saw a tall woman coming towards them from the edge of the trees.
Ailbe walked past them to the porch, sparked a small brand into life, then used it to light a lantern hanging on the wall near the door. The yellow light was almost dazzling after their walk through the dark woods. She held the lantern up high, revealing a narrow, angular face surrounded by black hair, and a nose that very much resembled Timothy’s. “Why have you brought these three here?”
“They need to talk to you,” said Shamus.
“At this hour?” Ailbe looked the three over. “What’s so important it can’t wait until morning? The boy’s face needs a poultice, but there’s nothing wrong with his big friend.” She turned to Eileen. “Is it you, girl? Are you pregnant?”
Young girls must come to her often,
Thomas realized as Eileen’s mouth fell open and a blush spread right up to the roots of her hair.
No wonder the folks in the tavern were looking at us funny.
Thomas stepped forward before Eileen could find her voice. “It’s not that. It’s… news.” Thomas realized he wasn’t sure how to proceed. He’d never told someone that a person they knew had died. “I’m Thomas Flarety,” he said, as much to delay what he had to say as to be polite. “These two are George and Eileen Gobhann.” A lump started to form in his throat. He swallowed it and pressed on. “Do you know Timothy? The juggler?”
“Timothy Fihelly? He’s my brother.”
Oh, by the Four.
Thomas felt his stomach drop and the blood rush away from his face. The lump came back into his throat, blocking off his breath and any possibility of speech.
Oh, no.
Ailbe was waiting for him to tell her what was happening, Thomas knew. He swallowed again, trying to clear his throat. It didn’t work. Ailbe frowned, and her tone was cautious when she said. “Is he in trouble?”
Thomas forced a breath into his lungs, then let the words rush out with the air. “He’s dead.”
Ailbe stood motionless, her mouth half-open. “What?”
“I’m sorry,” said Thomas, quickly. “It happened yesterday. In Elmvale.”
Ailbe swayed, like a branch in a sudden breeze. All the colour had vanished from her face, leaving it pale and sickly in the yellow light of the lantern. Shamus was beside her in an instant, putting an arm around her waist and taking the lantern. Ailbe caught his arm with a hand, squeezing hard. Her voice was distant when she said, “How?”
“He was… uh,” Thomas stumbled on the words, then rushed them out, as if the speed would make it hurt less, like tearing a bandage from a wound. “He was murdered.”
Ailbe let go of Shamus and stepped forward to the stairs. She stepped down the first stair, then sat. She was shaking, but Thomas couldn’t hear any crying. The light of the lantern behind her silhouetted her to Thomas. Her voice, distant and unconnected, floated from the shadows of her face. “Who would want to kill him? He never harmed anyone. He wouldn’t…” her head cocked towards Thomas, though he still couldn’t see her face. “Why?”
“They…” Thomas stopped, his eyes going to Shamus. The raw-boned man looked shaken, and his face was bleak. Thomas had no idea how much the man knew, or how much to say in front of him. “They were after something.”
“After something?” Ailbe’s words came out half-strangled, and the short, harsh laugh that followed them had a note of hysteria. “What did he have that was worth anything? He was a travelling performer! He had his wagon and the shirt on his back!”
“He…uh,” Thomas wished desperately for a drink to put the moisture back in his mouth. “He said your name.”
“My name?” Ailbe sounded confused. “When?”
“At the end.”
Thomas could see Ailbe’s body crumbling in on itself, though her face was still in shadow. She began sobbing, her shoulders shaking hard. “Oh!” the sound hurled itself out of her body. “”Oh, by the Four! Oh, no…” the words dissolved into sobbing. Shamus put down the lantern and knelt behind her on the porch. He put his hands on her shoulders and she turned, burying her face into his chest. He held her tight.
“You should go,” said Shamus. “Come back in the morning. “
“Uh…” Thomas could see how badly Ailbe was shaking, could hear her sobbing into Shamus’s shirt and wished he could leave them be. “We can’t.”
“What do you mean, you can’t?” Shamus’s voice was hard. “Let the woman alone for tonight. You can tell her the rest in the morning.”
“We can’t,” Thomas repeated. “The men who attacked Timothy might be coming here.”
“What?” Shock replaced some of the hardness. “What do you—” Shamus cut himself off, looking down at the woman in his arms. When his eyes met Thomas’s again they looked to be made of stone. “You wait,” he said, his voice cold and flat. “You wait right here.”
He whispered into Ailbe’s ear once, then again. Still crying, she nodded. Shamus gently raised Ailbe up and helped her back up onto the porch, then into the house.
“That was awful,” whispered Eileen as soon as they disappeared inside.
“It’s going to get worse,” said Thomas. “I’ve still got to tell her about the magic.”
“Maybe we should go,” George suggested. “The bishop isn’t here.”
Thomas shook his head. “Doesn’t mean they’re safe. We need to warn her, at least.”
George nodded, but didn’t look at all happy. Ailbe’s sobs, muffled by the walls of the little cottage, still floated out to them. No one spoke, and the night dragged slowly forward. Eileen sat in the grass, and soon George joined her. Thomas kept his feet, watching the front door of the cottage and waiting. The crying kept going for a long time, rising and falling at intervals until it began to taper off. It took the better part of an hour before the crying finally stopped. Thomas stayed where he was, waiting.
The front door of the cabin opened, and a light shone through. Ailbe stood in the doorway, the lantern in her hand. Her face was still streaked with tears, and she looked pale, but she was steady on her feet and her voice was clear. “You said the men who killed my brother were after something?”
“Aye,” said Thomas.
“What was it?”
It was the best opportunity he was going to get, Thomas knew. He braced himself for her reaction. “His magic.”
Thomas waited, afraid Ailbe would call him insane or have Shamus drive him off the property, but she didn’t. She didn’t react at all, just stood there.
Thomas pressed on. “Before he died, he said the bishop took his magic; that he was collecting the small magics. Then he said your name. I had to come in case they were going to come after you, next.”
The tears were flowing down Ailbe’s face again. She made no move to stop them or wipe them away. Instead, she said, “Why you?”
Not ‘What magic?’
Thomas thought,
not, ‘Why would they come after me?’
“Because,” said Thomas, keeping his voice steady and trying not to show the relief he was feeling, “Bishop Malloy tried to take my magic, too.”
Thomas waited. The tears ran unimpeded down Ailbe’s face. Her eyes were focused far away. Behind him, Thomas could hear George and Eileen coming to their feet, heard them shift nervously once they were up. Thomas was about ready to say something more when she stepped back and opened the door wide.
“Come inside,” said Ailbe. “Come inside and tell me everything.”
Thomas nodded and, with a glance at his friends to make sure they were following, went up the stairs. Ailbe stepped out of the way and ushered them all into the house. The main room was small. There were only two chairs; a large one in a corner which Shamus was occupying, and another, smaller one near the fireplace that was clearly Ailbe’s. A worn rug covered part of the wooden floor, and an open doorway led to a kitchen, while a curtain covered another door that Thomas guessed led to Ailbe’s bedroom. Thomas came in and stood by the fireplace. Eileen and George stayed near the door, looking quite nervous and out of place.
Ailbe took her chair, sat down, and took a moment to wipe at the tears on her face with cloth on the arm of the chair. When she was done she said, “Shamus knows all about Timothy’s magic,” which made Shamus sit upright and look very wary. “Anything you would say to me, you can say to him.”
Thomas nodded and told the story, from his arrival home to his first meeting with Timothy to Fire Night and all the events that had happened since. It took an hour, from beginning to end, and by the finish of it, Ailbe was wiping at her face again, and Shamus was leaning forward in his seat, anger clear on his face. George and Eileen had sat on the floor near the door, and were looking awkward and uncertain. Thomas, still standing, was aware of the pain in his feet and the ache in his face and ribs.
“I don’t understand why,” Ailbe said when Thomas was finished. “What does the bishop want with magic?”
“He called it a corruption,” said Thomas. “Said he was going to purify me.”
“Aye,” said Shamus. “The High Father’s church has never had a kind place in its heart for witches.”
Thomas forbore mentioning the difference between witchcraft and magic. “If that was it, he’d have brought inquisitors,” he said instead. “Or his guards. Instead, he was trusting the work to three ruffians. Besides, he’s not just getting rid of the magic, he’s taking it for himself.”
“Which is odd, if he thinks it is a corruption,” said Ailbe. She sighed and turned to Shamus. “What do you think?”
Shamus leaned forward in his chair, the firelight flickering over his craggy features. “I think we should talk to the sheriff. Tell him what happened.”
Ailbe shook her head. “How?” she asked. “What could we say? If Thomas is telling the truth, then there’s no proof. Besides, who would believe us?”
Shamus grunted his acknowledgement. “Not right,” he said. “Not right for the bishop to be doing such things.”
“No,” agreed Ailbe, suddenly sounding very tired. “It isn’t.” She looked into the fire and stared there for a time. When she spoke again, it was to herself more than to anyone else. “He shouldn’t have died like that.”