aunt’s knowledgeable, but skeptical, practitioners.
Mistress Bearrach thrust a bulging leather sack at Ruarc. “There, young man, carry this for me and go get our horses. Go on, I’m not getting any younger, you know. At this rate, I’ll be dead before you return.”
Ruarc hid a grin and jogged back across the courtyard to where a boy waited with three blanketed horses.
“Thank you for allowing me to accompany you today,” Aine said.
Mistress Bearrach harrumphed. “Just don’t kill anyone. That’s one mistake I can’t fix.”
Ruarc returned with their horses then, saving Aine from answering. He helped the healer mount first and then gave Aine a leg up onto her own mare. The horse danced nervously beneath her, obviously sensing she was a barely competent rider. Mistress Bearrach, by contrast, seemed as comfortable atop her mount as on her own feet, despite the fact horses were not common in Seare outside the palaces of kings.
The horses’ hooves thudded on packed earth as they made their way down the steep switchbacks with Mistress Bearrach in the lead. At the bottom, the old woman turned due south onto a trail that was little more than a few hoof prints in the grass. Aine would have missed it had she not been following the healer so closely. After a few minutes of open meadow, the trees began to grow more thickly, forming the young forest that bordered Seanrós. Aine shivered at the touch of magic on her skin.
Mistress Bearrach cast a glance over her shoulder. “You feel it, do you? Good. You’re not a total disappointment.”
Aine’s eyebrows lifted. Perhaps Mistress Bearrach saw more than she let on.
They traveled slowly through the border woods, breathing in the heavy scent of damp earth and vegetation. After nearly an hour, the small trail joined a larger road, and the trees again thinned into rolling countryside.
Aine drew a deep breath, and her earlier tension began to melt away in the quiet. Peat smoke drifted faintly on the breeze, wafting from the hearths of the whitewashed cottages in the distance. Ivory-fleeced sheep with black faces grazed freely, unhindered by enclosures. A cow lifted its head and lowed softly as they passed.
Up ahead, the road widened into a large area of hard-packed dirt. A square building with a shingled, peaked roof loomed before them, the lime-washed wickerwork and great three-spoked wheel identifying it as a church.
“This is Fionncill,” Mistress Bearrach said.
“Only this?” Compared to Aine’s birthplace, Forrais, this smattering of cottages and pastureland hardly qualified as a village.
A throng closed around them as they rode into the square. There were women in rough-spun skirts and wool shawls, tending dozens of children among them. Frail elders, propped up by daughters and grandsons. Men wrapped in bandages or wracked with coughing. Aine threw a panicked glance at Ruarc. So many patients, so many expectations. How could they possibly tend them all?
Ruarc dismounted first and helped her down from her horse. As soon as Aine’s feet touched the ground, several children began tugging at her clothes.
“Are you really the king’s sister?” A tow-headed girl, perhaps six years old, looked up at Aine with wide blue eyes.
“I am. My name is Aine. What’s yours?”
“Mara, m’lady.” The girl bobbed a curtsy and smiled shyly.
A little boy, who had been hiding behind Mara’s skirts, popped to Aine’s side. “Are you going to fix my mama?”
“I’m certainly going to try. Where is your mama?”
The boy grabbed her hand and dragged her across the yard to where a pale, red-haired woman cradled a tiny infant on the front steps of the church. “Mama! This is Aine! She’s going to make you better.”
Color bloomed in the woman’s ashen cheeks. “Hush now, Donall. I’m sorry, my lady. He hasn’t yet learned to hold his tongue.”
“No need to apologize.” Aine smiled and sat down on the steps beside her. “What’s your
Mistress Bearrach thrust a bulging leather sack at Ruarc. “There, young man, carry this for me and go get our horses. Go on, I’m not getting any younger, you know. At this rate, I’ll be dead before you return.”
Ruarc hid a grin and jogged back across the courtyard to where a boy waited with three blanketed horses.
“Thank you for allowing me to accompany you today,” Aine said.
Mistress Bearrach harrumphed. “Just don’t kill anyone. That’s one mistake I can’t fix.”
Ruarc returned with their horses then, saving Aine from answering. He helped the healer mount first and then gave Aine a leg up onto her own mare. The horse danced nervously beneath her, obviously sensing she was a barely competent rider. Mistress Bearrach, by contrast, seemed as comfortable atop her mount as on her own feet, despite the fact horses were not common in Seare outside the palaces of kings.
The horses’ hooves thudded on packed earth as they made their way down the steep switchbacks with Mistress Bearrach in the lead. At the bottom, the old woman turned due south onto a trail that was little more than a few hoof prints in the grass. Aine would have missed it had she not been following the healer so closely. After a few minutes of open meadow, the trees began to grow more thickly, forming the young forest that bordered Seanrós. Aine shivered at the touch of magic on her skin.
Mistress Bearrach cast a glance over her shoulder. “You feel it, do you? Good. You’re not a total disappointment.”
Aine’s eyebrows lifted. Perhaps Mistress Bearrach saw more than she let on.
They traveled slowly through the border woods, breathing in the heavy scent of damp earth and vegetation. After nearly an hour, the small trail joined a larger road, and the trees again thinned into rolling countryside.
Aine drew a deep breath, and her earlier tension began to melt away in the quiet. Peat smoke drifted faintly on the breeze, wafting from the hearths of the whitewashed cottages in the distance. Ivory-fleeced sheep with black faces grazed freely, unhindered by enclosures. A cow lifted its head and lowed softly as they passed.
Up ahead, the road widened into a large area of hard-packed dirt. A square building with a shingled, peaked roof loomed before them, the lime-washed wickerwork and great three-spoked wheel identifying it as a church.
“This is Fionncill,” Mistress Bearrach said.
“Only this?” Compared to Aine’s birthplace, Forrais, this smattering of cottages and pastureland hardly qualified as a village.
A throng closed around them as they rode into the square. There were women in rough-spun skirts and wool shawls, tending dozens of children among them. Frail elders, propped up by daughters and grandsons. Men wrapped in bandages or wracked with coughing. Aine threw a panicked glance at Ruarc. So many patients, so many expectations. How could they possibly tend them all?
Ruarc dismounted first and helped her down from her horse. As soon as Aine’s feet touched the ground, several children began tugging at her clothes.
“Are you really the king’s sister?” A tow-headed girl, perhaps six years old, looked up at Aine with wide blue eyes.
“I am. My name is Aine. What’s yours?”
“Mara, m’lady.” The girl bobbed a curtsy and smiled shyly.
A little boy, who had been hiding behind Mara’s skirts, popped to Aine’s side. “Are you going to fix my mama?”
“I’m certainly going to try. Where is your mama?”
The boy grabbed her hand and dragged her across the yard to where a pale, red-haired woman cradled a tiny infant on the front steps of the church. “Mama! This is Aine! She’s going to make you better.”
Color bloomed in the woman’s ashen cheeks. “Hush now, Donall. I’m sorry, my lady. He hasn’t yet learned to hold his tongue.”
“No need to apologize.” Aine smiled and sat down on the steps beside her. “What’s your
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