you’ve done today.” Through the grille, Isibéal saw the woman bow to Meriel. The Banrion Ard, holding Treoraí’s Heart in her left hand, walked over to the supplicants. Most of them lowered their heads as she approached, not daring to look at her directly; two of them, standing slightly apart from the others and, from their dress, obviously Riocha, did not; they met Meriel’s gaze. The Banrion Ard moved slowly down the line, pausing in front of each one. There was conversation between the supplicants and Meriel, though it was so soft and garbled by the echoes in the hall that Isibéal couldn’t hear it. One of the supplicants, a woman with a bandage holding a greasy poultice of some sort to her head, gasped as Meriel spoke to her. She gave a shout of glee, ripping the poultice from her head, and the Banrion Edana and Tiarna Mac Ard applauded softly. The woman sank to her knees in front of Meriel, kissing the hand clutching Treorai’s Heart.
“She’s not really the one,” Ennis whispered to Isibéal. “Mam says that many of those who come to her fix themselves somehow. She said maybe it’s just the Mother-Creator working on Her own. She’ll use the cloch with the lady who has the black hair.”
“Why do you say that, Ennis?” Isibéal saw nothing special about the woman. The others all seemed to suffer from obvious physical deformities: a withered arm; a leg whose bandage seemed to be seeping some dark pus; the wrinkled, shiny scars of horrible burns on flesh. The black-haired woman—dressed in a ragged, torn léine and soiled woolen clóca—appeared healthy enough compared to the others, with no visible problem.
“I just know, ” he answered, snuggling up against her. “Can’t you see the blue ghosts?” Isibéal clasped her arm tighter around him, the movement instinctive and maternal. She remembered the child she’d lost—he’d been Ennis’ age, almost exactly, and sometimes when she held Ennis, she leaned in and smelled him, and he smelled like Adimu had. She could imagine she was holding her own son again . . . You don’t want to feel sympathy for these people . . .
Meriel had stopped in front of the black-haired woman. She spoke, and the woman answered so softly that Isibéal could hear nothing. “Her sickness is inside,” Ennis said with a certainty that was curiously adult. “Mam says that’s the hardest thing to heal with her stone. She says it’s hard, too, because no one else can see it, and they sometimes wonder why she chose that person.”
“People don’t believe miracles they can’t see,” Isibéal told the boy. “That’s just our nature. Do you understand what I mean?”
He nodded, his large eyes wide. “Mam could heal the sickness inside you,” he said. “If you let her.”
Isibéal found herself holding her breath, staring at the boy. “What . . .” She had to stop and swallow. “What do you mean, Ennis? I’m not sick.”
“You don’t think so,” Ennis answered with the same dry solemnity, as if he were reciting his lessons. “But you are.” Before she could reply to that, he wriggled in her arms and pointed. “Look!” he said breathily.
Meriel had dismissed all the other supplicants except for the dark-haired woman. The poor ones left quickly with downcast eyes. The two Riocha also bowed and gave polite thanks, but Isibéal could see the frustration and distaste in their eyes at realizing the Banrion Ard had again chosen a tuathánach over them. When they’d gone, Meriel motioned to the woman, who came and stood nervously in front of the Banrion Ard. Meriel’s hand tightened visibly around the clochmion she held, and she reached out to cup the woman’s head with her other hand. Meriel stiffened at the touch, as if it pained her to make the contact. Her chin lifted, the torc of the Banrion Ard gleaming on her léine, and her eyes closed. She groaned loudly, a keening low wail almost like the grieving of the sochraideach, the professional
“She’s not really the one,” Ennis whispered to Isibéal. “Mam says that many of those who come to her fix themselves somehow. She said maybe it’s just the Mother-Creator working on Her own. She’ll use the cloch with the lady who has the black hair.”
“Why do you say that, Ennis?” Isibéal saw nothing special about the woman. The others all seemed to suffer from obvious physical deformities: a withered arm; a leg whose bandage seemed to be seeping some dark pus; the wrinkled, shiny scars of horrible burns on flesh. The black-haired woman—dressed in a ragged, torn léine and soiled woolen clóca—appeared healthy enough compared to the others, with no visible problem.
“I just know, ” he answered, snuggling up against her. “Can’t you see the blue ghosts?” Isibéal clasped her arm tighter around him, the movement instinctive and maternal. She remembered the child she’d lost—he’d been Ennis’ age, almost exactly, and sometimes when she held Ennis, she leaned in and smelled him, and he smelled like Adimu had. She could imagine she was holding her own son again . . . You don’t want to feel sympathy for these people . . .
Meriel had stopped in front of the black-haired woman. She spoke, and the woman answered so softly that Isibéal could hear nothing. “Her sickness is inside,” Ennis said with a certainty that was curiously adult. “Mam says that’s the hardest thing to heal with her stone. She says it’s hard, too, because no one else can see it, and they sometimes wonder why she chose that person.”
“People don’t believe miracles they can’t see,” Isibéal told the boy. “That’s just our nature. Do you understand what I mean?”
He nodded, his large eyes wide. “Mam could heal the sickness inside you,” he said. “If you let her.”
Isibéal found herself holding her breath, staring at the boy. “What . . .” She had to stop and swallow. “What do you mean, Ennis? I’m not sick.”
“You don’t think so,” Ennis answered with the same dry solemnity, as if he were reciting his lessons. “But you are.” Before she could reply to that, he wriggled in her arms and pointed. “Look!” he said breathily.
Meriel had dismissed all the other supplicants except for the dark-haired woman. The poor ones left quickly with downcast eyes. The two Riocha also bowed and gave polite thanks, but Isibéal could see the frustration and distaste in their eyes at realizing the Banrion Ard had again chosen a tuathánach over them. When they’d gone, Meriel motioned to the woman, who came and stood nervously in front of the Banrion Ard. Meriel’s hand tightened visibly around the clochmion she held, and she reached out to cup the woman’s head with her other hand. Meriel stiffened at the touch, as if it pained her to make the contact. Her chin lifted, the torc of the Banrion Ard gleaming on her léine, and her eyes closed. She groaned loudly, a keening low wail almost like the grieving of the sochraideach, the professional
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