The healer’s eyes met his, and Farris knew she sensed his apprehension.
“But,” he began, “if the Gods are watching over us, then why would they let something as horrible as this happen?”
He asked because he wanted to keep the conversation away from the motives of those who infiltrated the ship. Deep down, however, he was eager to hear how she’d respond.
“It’s fate, Chester,” Sláine said, casting her eyes up to the sky. “Everything that happens to us has already been fated to be. I can’t say what role we have in the Lady’s plan, but I have faith that She will lead us to happiness.”
Farris had nothing to say to that, but Sláine seemed to know what he was thinking. “But you don’t believe in fate, Chester, do you?”
He nodded, staring into the waning flames. “My choices are my own, nobody else’s. I’ve made lots of decisions in my life. Some I stand by, some I don’t, but nobody chose them but me.”
The healer smiled. “I used to be like you, Chester. Not a nonbeliever in the Trinity, but an advocate of free will. Of course, these choices seem like your own, but….”
She paused and closed her eyes, running her fingers through her dry, straw-like hair. “But then I met Catríona Ní Marra. She was the daughter of the Earl of Dromán, back when I started studying white magic. The Mage’s Academy looked out over the manor’s courtyard, and it was a common sight to see the little lords and ladies playing amongst the flowers. The Earl took ill during my first autumn there, and he passed away some weeks later.
“Shortly after he died, when winter had really set in, young Catríona fell from her horse and hit her head. It was quite serious. Her elder brother brought the unconscious girl to us, and we did everything in our power to save her. The master healer saw that she was still breathing and put us on shifts to monitor her condition through the night. Although there were three of us taking turns to watch over her, Catríona’s brother never left her side. Not even once.
“The Academy is an institute of research just as much as it is an institute of education. We were ordered to take records of everything we observed. There was no need, though, for I’ll never forget what I saw.
“I was on duty when she finally came to. Her brother was there, so happy to see his little sister alive and awake again. She looked confused at first, which was to be expected. Head injuries often affect the memory, and patients usually wake asking what happened, or where they are.
“Catríona Ní Marra didn’t ask anything like this. Instead she gazed out the window, out into the dark, frozen courtyard, and asked, ‘Where have all the flowers gone?’
“Her brother smiled and told her that she had just bumped her head and would be better very soon. We had told him to expect some memory loss, so he knew that the last thing she remembered was probably seeing the courtyard outside alive with the colours of spring.
“Then she asked, ‘So I missed my birthday?’
“He laughed, and said that she did, but she’d remember again in time. He told her about the feast they had to celebrate and described the jesters, bards, and fools that performed for all the guests. She was laughing at this point, until she asked, ‘And how is Father? Is he still unwell?’
“Desperately, he looked to me for help, but I was just a student then, and I didn’t know what to do. The poor lad was left with no choice but to tell the girl about her father’s death, and little Catríona mourned for him all over again. She cried for several minutes as her brother sat there in silence. Soon afterwards, she stopped. Her eyes, barely dry, were drawn again to the window.
“Then she asked, ‘Where have all the flowers gone?’
“He told her about the accident again, the memory loss, but still she asked, ‘So I missed my birthday?’
“I sat and listened to the same details—the jesters, the bards, the feast—as the little girl laughed and smiled in delight. I knew what was coming next, but I prayed to the Gods that she wouldn’t ask again.
“‘And how is Father? Is he still unwell?’
“For a whole hour, they had the same conversation. Over and over again. For a whole hour, Catríona mourned for the death of her father. Each time she cried in exactly the same way: soft sobs followed by a slow building wail, then silence. The way she paused and looked out the window was the same every time, as was the way she wiped her tears away with the back of her sleeve.
“Again, and again. Every. Single. Time.
“Eventually the gaps between her periods of memory-loss decreased, but still she always asked the same first question: ‘Where have all the flowers gone?’
“Those words have been burned into my soul since that day. Whenever her crying stopped, I wanted nothing more than for her to remain silent, but always she asked, ‘Where have all the flowers gone?’
“From that day on, I knew that our will has never been free.”
Farris remained silent when she finished her story. It was a strange tale. Eventually, he asked, “But… but what does that have to do with fate?”
“Everything, Chester. Consider this: If our memory of this conversation were to be erased, your response, ‘But what does that have to do with fate?’ would be the same if we were to have it again. If we were all to relive this day from the start, we’d still end up here, stranded in the middle of the Glenn. If you were to be born again, with no knowledge of the life you have already lived, everything would turn out exactly the same.
“Like an alchemical reaction, the output will never change if the ingredients are consistent. I don’t know what you are going to say next, but the Gods do. The Gods do because your next answer has been determined before I started speaking. It was determined before your father met your mother. It was decided before the Fall of Sin, before Móráin’s Conquest. From the moment the Lord created the world, He knew how each of our lives would unfold, along with the lives of our children, and our children’s children. It is often said that the Lady has weaved our fate, but there are those who argue that She can only observe its threads. Because She sees life like alchemy. Formulaic. Predictable. Predetermined. Catrina Ní Marra’s injury gave us an insight into what it would be like to lose your memory and relive a few moments over and over, and her story leaves very little room for free will.”
Farris pressed his hand onto his forehead as he considered the healer’s words. He was put on board the ship because he had earned the king’s trust. He had earned the king’s trust because of his work with the Guild of Thieves. He was sent to Cruachan because of the Silverback’s wish to rid the land of Humans, and the Humans never would have landed on the shores of Alabach if it wasn’t for King Móráin the First, and the Grey Plague. Everything was suddenly traceable back to a single point.
The moment of Creation.
This was an unsettling thought.
Sláine stood up, unaware of the turmoil inside Farris’s head. “Now, get some sleep while you can. Only the Gods know what tomorrow holds, but you better make sure you are strong enough to handle whatever’s in store.”
Dear Yarlaith,
I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you this in person, but I’m tied up with work on the new inn, and I needed to get this message to you as soon as possible.
Cormac is alive. He’s here in Point Grey. I have him staying in the inn for the time being, but he’s in a bad way. Seems like he’s been homeless for the best part of a year.
I know you two have never really seen eye to eye, but Gods above and below, he’s your only brother. I have a healer looking after him now, and he’ll hopefully be ready to come back to Roseán by the time the moon turns.
I know how bad he was as much as you do, and I’m all too aware of what the others have been saying about him fleeing when Aoife died, but he needs help more now than ever. He can barely string a coherent sentence together, and I’ve no idea what he’s been doing on the streets of Point Grey to survive all this time.
I can understand if you don’t want anything to do with him, but he can’t stay here forever. Please come as soon as you can. If not for me, for Morrígan. She’s had a tough year and needs to know her father is still alive.
Yours in the Light of the Lady,
Peadair O’Briain.
