It was cool inside. The knobbly stone walls of the abbey kept the heat at bay, and the dim, chilled air wafted like vapor over his forearms and face. There was a short nave, the chancel at the opposite end. Finian bent to one knee, lowered his head and crossed himself, kissing his fingertips lightly. Then he rose and turned to face the small sound that had hissed behind him.

A robed figure moved closer.

“Mother.”

The abbess briefly touched his bent head. “This way.”

Finian followed her through the nave, through a small door, and out into a sunny courtyard. They crossed it and entered another building. The door slammed shut behind them. It took a moment to adjust to the darkness, but when he did, Finian saw they were in a large room, strewn with fresh rushes. This is where the nuns transcribed and illustrated their magnificent illuminated manuscripts.

Mother Superior turned. “My son, you are late.”

“I was delayed.”

“Mayhap too late.”

“I couldn’t help it.”

She eyed him severely. “What matters that, to the Lord?”

“It mattered to me,” Finian muttered, and glanced around.

Her square-cut veil framed an impressively stern face. Tanned, from working outdoors in the gardens, he assumed. “They came.”

He looked back sharply. “Who?”

“Someone who wanted whatever he had as much as you do.”

“Mother, where is he?”

She pointed to a doorway on the other side of the room. The wide sleeve of her robe gaped open, revealing a surprisingly muscular forearm. Finian was taken aback. “Down the stairs, through the cloister, straight across to the dormitory. Last door on the right.”

She regarded him somberly. Her finger rotated and indicated Finian’s sword. “That stays with me.”

Finian handed it over without protest. The three other blades tucked in various folds of his clothing and buckled to his arm should serve at need.

He passed swiftly through the open-aired cloister, where nuns moved like floating blue bells in the bright sunshine, murmuring in quiet conversation. One swept the stone-laid walkway with a whisk broom. She glanced over, then quickly away. Finian leapt up the short stairwell to the dormitory and strode down the corridor.

He gave a perfunctory knock, already pushing open the door. “Red?”

He slammed to a halt.

Red was lying on the floor. A trail of drying blood marked a narrow stream that flowed directly from his bashed head.

Finian dropped to a knee.

“Red?” He slid his hands under the man’s head, disregarding the blood that smeared his palms. “Jésu, Red. What are you doing out of bed? Red!”

He went cold in the silence that followed. A fly buzzed by the small window. He could smell the old, cold wood of the shutters. Finian’s bootheel slid across the grainy floor of the chamber, gritting loudly as he lowered himself to the floor. He hauled on Red’s torso, pulling him into his arms. “Red!”

Red’s eyes flickered open.

“Oh, Jésu, man,” Finian exhaled. He lifted him up farther, stretched his own legs out and rested his compatriot on them, cradling his head.

“Are you a’right?”

“Good God, Irish,” Red croaked. “No, I’m not all right. I’m about to die. I’m just waiting on you.” He swallowed around what was obviously a parched throat. “Trust the Irishry to be late.” He squinted at him. “Why you? Where’s Turlough?”

“Dead.”

“Poor bastard.”

Finian reached to his side and yanked free the leather skin of water. He held it to Red’s mouth. He drank deeply, but slowly. Most of each suck went sliding down his cheek and chin. He was fading fast.

“Haven’t the sisters been seeing to ye?”

“For whatever good it’s done, aye. The Mother Superior though,” Red gave a grim smile. “She was bloody wonderful.” Red’s eyes met his, half-lidded from weariness and pain, but sharp as ever. “Five days ago, when I got here.”

“Forgive me.” Finian shifted him and he groaned. “I was captured.”

“I suppose that’ll do. Quickly, now. I was out of bed, trying to get it before I go to meet my Maker. You’d never have found it otherwise. It’s over there.” He pointed to the wall. “There’s a spot, low. Dig it out.”

“The recipe?”

“In all its fatal glory.”

Relief heated Finian’s limbs. It felt like the old days, when he and Red would meet, their interests crossing paths; and trading intelligence, Finian for Ireland, Red for Scotland, both against Edward. Ever against Edward’s insatiable appetites for kingdoms that weren’t his.

Finian lowered Red to the ground when it became obvious he could never endure being lifted back to the cot. Then he dug where Red had directed him, with careful movements, excavating a small hollow in the stone walls that separated the dormir rooms. A stream of rubble funneled onto the floor, making a little dusty pile. He shoved his hand into the hole, the skin of his wrist scraping against the sharp, gritty stone. He pulled out a small manuscript, like a miniature treatise, bound between thick wood covers.

“This is it?”

Red nodded weakly. His eyes had been shut, but he opened them. “Aye. The recipe, coded.”

“How did you find it, after all these years?”

Red closed his eyes again. “Doesn’t matter. Open it.”

A strange reluctance stayed Finian’s hand, then he swept the bound pages open.

The colors hit him first—the reds and yellows and blues of the illuminations filled not only the margins, but entire pages, bright and brilliant. Images of plants in all shapes and colors, beaches and shells. Birds. Deep bowls and pestles and huge vats. Oak trees and burl wood, and tiny insects crafted with lines so small and precise he had no idea where they found a brush so fine. And…dancing.

Dancing women and men, strands of flowers and curving lines and copulation. Heads thrown back, in various poses of pleasure, their bodies were so skillfully painted they actually looked to be gleaming with sweat.

These illustrated figures were having more fun than some living souls did. The abbess would not be pleased to be the conduit for passing it along.

Finian looked up, brows raised. Red nodded, then shrugged.

He kept turning pages, focusing on the text because the drawings were not, at least initially, informative. They were arousing, though. He focused on the words. Flowing Latin script, letters and words, hugged corners here and there, and occasionally filled the center of a vellum sheet. Numerals as well, surprisingly…

“Arabic,” Red croaked, following the direction of Finian’s perusal.

“Aye,” he said, feeling slightly tossed about.

But whether in Roman or Arabic, they were certainly measurements. Distances, miles, amounts, dilution rates. Everything was figured here.

But erotic imagery and computational guide aside, most of the work was sketches. They looked like architectural blueprints, of castles and water wheels and mills. Trajectories and trebuchets. Explosions.

This was a military manual.

“The mind that made this was lethal,” said Finian grimly.

“Dyer had a genius,” Red croaked.

Nobles in robes, dropping to their knees. Various sketches showed this. A man, a crowned king, wore a cape in one drawing. The bottom half of him was slowly fading out, disappearing. It looked as if the ink was fading, or as if water had been accidentally mixed with the ink and the image was washed out. But the whole thing was far too intentional for that.

“What is this?” Finian murmured.

“What does it look like?” Red’s words were quiet, his eyes closed. But he seemed to know exactly what Finian was looking at.

“It looks like a man disappearing.”

“Or being made invisible.”

Finian looked up sharply. “That’s madness.”

Slowly, Red pushed himself up a bit and stuck his hand inside his leather gambeson. He pulled something out and extended his hand as if handing something over, but Finian couldn’t make out what he was seeing.

He blinked and looked closer. Some kind of shimmering was on Red’s upturned palm, like faraway butterfly wings over water. He reached out, touched Red’s palm, and then he felt it. He was touching something he could hardly see.

Each time he tried to focus on it, it shifted, emitted that shimmering effect. But Red was holding something very solid, very definite in his hand.

“Take it,” he rasped weakly.

Finian did, lifting the nothing-that-was-something. “What is this?”

“This is that.” Red pointed to the image of the disappearing figure in the dye manual. “See what it can do.”

“Madness,” Finian said again, as precious time flowed away. But he had to understand. “As a powder, they’re explosive. As a dye, ’tis the royal indigo shade—”

“And true-dyed onto a certain type of wool, in a certain weave, it can do that.”

He could feel the wool’s weave, sitting lightly in his hand, its draped edges ruffling down over the edge of his palm, but he could not see it. Not truly. And the more he tried to focus on it, the harder it became to detect.

“It appears some parts are there,” Red rasped. “As if little specks of the fabric are visible—”

“But all the surrounding spots are not.”

“As if one point in ten is showing.”

“’Tis almost as if…it’s picking up—”

Finian shook the fabric into the air, held it by his fingertips with the dun-colored wall behind it. For a brief second, it was visible as just what it was, a piece of pale weave, the size and shape of a child’s tunic, not indigo alone, but with a slighter, redder hue.

Then, before his eyes, it seemed to disappear again, blending in with the wall behind it except for those few little spots of distinctive, steady color that made the shimmering so disorienting.

“’Tis magic,” the spy said.

But Finian’s concerns were much less enchanted. “And that manual tells how to do this?” he demanded.

Red nodded his head once, an effortful move. “Aye.”

“But how? The secret of the Wishmés has been lost for hundreds of years.” Finian held up the shimmering, vanishing fabric, evidence that someone, somewhere, had known how to conjure this dangerous magic.

Red met his gaze. “The manual in your hand is not a thousand years old.”

“No, ’tis not. God save us,” Finian said, his mind already integrating the information and finding the ramifications bone chilling.

Red summoned energy from somewhere, enough to scowl at him and sit up a little straighter. “You hope for God, O’Melaghlin. I’ve learned we’ve to make our own means in such matters. Now, listen. I’m giving this manual to you Irish for one reason.”

Finian stiffened. “I didn’t know there were conditions.”

“I’m going to die. I make conditions if I want. You need to use that.” He pointed to the manual.

“What do ye mean?” Finian set the fabric down and stared at Red. “Why now? Why are ye giving this to the Irish now?”

Red sat up a little more. It must have taken great effort, because his words came out more harshly, his sentences broken up by short, pained breaths. “The Scots have signed a treaty…mutual aid with France. Longshanks is like a tornado touching down, he’s so furious. The Scots, straining at the bit. Come hell or high water, King Edward…will invade Scotland. Surely as I will die.” Red grabbed his arm. “Do not let him.”

“How am I to stop him?”

“Goddamnit, Irish,” he said with a sudden flash of anger. “I just gave you the ‘how.’ Set off a few explosions. Get his attention. Draw his eye, away from Scotland.”

“Draw his eye,” Finian repeated slowly. “Straight to Ireland.”

“Scotland will fall, O’Melaghlin. And then Ireland shall, too. Either Longshanks looks to you now, or he looks to you later, but look he shall, and one by one, we will all fall under his boot.” His eyes were furious. “Scotland is weary of going to the Continent for aid. France is a thousand leagues away. We need Ireland.”

“We?” Finian echoed. “Ye are English.”

In a rush, like air from a bellows, all the anger and its energy blew out of Red. His head dropped, the fire faded from his eyes. “My wife was Scottish.”

They sat in silence, Red’s breathing labored, until Finian said in a low, measured voice, “I will not promise a war to save Scotland, not if I have to offer up Ireland as payment. I cannot.”

“Bastard,” Red rasped. “Suspected that. One more. Condition. Most important.” His words were getting quieter, his sentences more abbreviated, staccato. “Rardove sent for…dye-witch.”

Finian’s body rushed with cold. Rivers of coldness, washing through his limbs. “Who?”

“From England…”

The rivers of coldness turned to ice.

“Get her out.”

“I think I already have,” he replied grimly.

“Good. Protect her above all else. Now, Irish…get out of here. The men who attacked…were Rardove’s. They’ll return.”

Shite.

“Get out. Now.”

“I’ll not leave you—”

“Christ on the cross, man, I’m already dead. Go.” Red’s eyes closed for the last time.

Finian lowered himself back to the ground and held the greatest English spy for Scotland’s cause on his lap until the life passed out of him in invisible ribbons of steam, dispersing his spy heat into the ether.