She could see the stars through the canopy—twinkling when the wind moved the boughs enough to let the night through. They seemed so calm. Serene. They told a different tale from the one she was trying to forget. Her loss. Their loss. Connacht’s loss. She could hear the warriors still celebrating the false victory. They were so easy to hoodwink. Their pride and belief in their own prowess made them so.

Although she could hear them, her mind was elsewhere. She wanted him to arrive. She wanted it over so she could continue with her quest. She was tired of plotting but needed to continue. There was no choice. There was never any choice, not while the Five Kingdoms were under threat.

The Defiler was still at large.

King of the Ulaid was there to press his suit at the next Assembly of Kings. More than a danger to the Five Kingdoms, he was her defiler. She needed him dead. It was her birthright to watch him castrated and then hang his kingly jewels above her roundhouse lintel.

And then there was the boar’s arse on top of her.

Ulster’s lackey, his weight on her, thrusting and grunting, smelling of horses and mead like her constantly drunk husband. At least he had a spear in his armory. Not that she wanted it. Spears were just a means by which to grab a man’s attention. She no longer needed this man’s attention. She just wished he would arrive and get it over with. He had promised to be punctual. He was late. It was taking too long.

Everything was taking too long.

And then he was there standing above Ulster’s lackey with a boar spear. She did not speak. She did not need to. Her eyes did the talking. He positioned himself so the spear’s point was over the back of Fergus’s neck. She closed her eyes, heard the assassin grunt as he stabbed down, felt the thump, heard the gagging caused by a ripped windpipe, the dead weight of one with a severed spinal column, and the slump of death, that weight engulfing her, his manhood withering and leaving her.

Finally, she was free of the intrusion.

“Get him off me,” she hissed, eyes still closed. She felt the weight lifted. She gathered her skirts into a semblance of decorum and sat up, opening her eyes. There was a slight prickling at the top of her chest, like beads of sweat. She ran her fingers over it. She felt a wetness, which she held in front of her face, and realized it was blood. Fergus’s blood, but just a drop, as though he had scratched himself shaving and not wiped his face before mounting her. “You know what to do?” she asked, fastening the buttons of her jerkin.

“Lady.”

“The blame must fall at the feet of my sot of a husband. It is to be a jealous act of vengeance. The warriors have all seen his jealousy. It will be readily believed.”

“Lady.”

“Tell them he stabbed Ulster’s sycophant with a boar spear. Better yet. Tell them he had a blind man do it. That would be much more my husband’s style.”

The man’s snort stopped her, buttoning her jerkin with it half open. This what, warrior or spy, had the onions to laugh at her? Did he not understand who she was? “You think this funny?”

“A little, truth be told. Why did you order his death?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“If you do, I will do as you ask and tell everyone it was Ailill who had him killed. Rat’s cock deserves it.”

“And if I do not?”

The warrior shrugged. Medb looked up at him and considered stabbing him with her ever-present bodkin. It was only a second before she understood he would best her easily. Whatever else he might be, he was a practiced warrior.

“Other than he is in fealty to Ulster, he broke his oath, and he betrayed me to the boy, you mean?”

“Yes, other than that.”

“He was to kill Mac Nessa, and he refused. He stood before the king of the Ulaid and let him live.”

“So, all this was nothing more than a move against Ulster?” the warrior guessed.

Medb looked at him and considered arguing, considered saying she did it for the good of the Five Kingdoms; she did it because the chieftains needed to know Mac Nessa would make a bad High King, but she could not. Sitting with her jerkin half-buttoned, she realized he was right. She did it because she needed Mac Nessa to pay for no other reason. He had to pay for humiliating her son. He had to pay for defiling her on the banks of the Bóand. He had to pay because he was Ulster, and he was evil. She did not care if Ériu sank into the sea without a trace so long as Mac Nessa went first.

***

“So,” Kathvar said over his shoulder. He knew who had arrived at the top of the cliff overlooking the beach at Indber Colptha, where ships were readying for sea. “What news from Gáirech?”

“Not even a greeting, Druid?” Longas scoffed.

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“I have no time for pleasantries. I must away to Dun Dealgan to attend the funeral of Fergus. I had hoped to sail for Ynys Môn today, but some self-serving deer spore altered my plans.”

“Fergus? What happened?” Fedelm asked. Kathvar looked at the sorceress and saw hurt and worry on her face.

“Of course, I forget. Your man and Fergus were close. He is dead, Fedelm. Stabbed in the back of the neck with a boar spear.”

“Who would have the nerve to do such a thing?”

“Nerve?” Longas asked, his face creased with the habitual sneer. Kathvar wondered if he had come into the world with his head tilted at an angle. It would explain the distracted, faraway look his mother constantly wore.

“Setanta loved Fergus. His rage will take a miracle to suppress. Crushing women’s heads at the Samhain festival will seem like a game of hurling if compared.”

“Rumor is, Ailill ordered it done,” Longas said while looking at the darkening forest. “Not that it matters. No one cares what that rat’s cock of a boy does.”

“Hmm,” Kathvar mused. “Take a moment to catch your breath, Fedelm. Then tell me what you have to report.”

“Breath I have aplenty,” Fedelm bristled. “It is as you predicted, Spymaster. The Hound is conflicted. He is not sure whether he did the right thing. He thinks he should have killed the witch. He would have, except his conscience balks at the idea of killing another unarmed woman. Me, I would kill her and have done. She is inherently evil.”

“She was not always so. Life has changed her. She has suffered some grave misfortunes.”

“It is a surprise to hear you defending her, Kathvar.”

“I understand your surprise. However, I can see what has driven her to it. I can see where life has forced it on her.”

“It matters not where she began her journey. She is evil. A black aura follows her around like she has a rotten carcass hidden in her bodice along with that Tuatha-forsaken bodkin she thinks no one knows about.”

“Do you think Cú Chulainn will accept the kingship?”

“No. He already told me he would not. He has returned to Dun Dealgan to be with Emer. He is sick to his stomach with all the killing and the politics. Ferdia’s death was too much for him.”

“Returned to Dun Dealgan for what, a quiet life?” Longas scoffed again.

“He wanted to spend time with his boy and his wife. Tending chickens and exchanging banter with Laeg.”

“But you want him down beside the Bóand exchanging kisses with you instead of banter with his retainer,” Longas laughed. “Your eyes tell many tales.”

Fedelm ignored him, which Kathvar admired. Her patience was one of the reasons he chose her. “He told me that although young, he already feels tired,” she said.

“You believe that?” Longas asked.

“I did. Now, though, he will be rampaging again to avenge Fergus.”

“You have done well, Fedelm. You can return to your studies. Biróg is expecting you. Go with my thanks.”

“Spymaster.” Fedelm bowed and walked away without a backward glance. Kathvar watched her until she was no longer in earshot. He did not think it would be a good idea if she heard his discussion with Longas. As she entered the forest eaves on the path to Indber Colptha, he turned to the son of Mac Nessa and asked, “What do you have to report, Longas?”

“Not much. I did as you suggested. Watched and sent messages when necessary.”

“Which was never.”

Longas shrugged, “I did not feel the need to report each time she wiped snot from her top lip.”

“Why did you kill Fergus?” Kathvar asked, feeling satisfied when Longas quickly quashed the look of shock on his face. He had not been sure, but the look confirmed his suspicions. It was not long before the spy regained his composure, but it was too late. Kathvar had seen the guilt. He smiled before offering the warrior a sneer of his own.

“The witch ordered it.”

“Why?”

“Someone told her Fergus had betrayed her and stopped her invasion plans.”

I am willing to wager that someone was you, Kathvar thought. He considered raising it as an issue but then thought better of it. If he needed to remove Longas for any reason, he could tell The Hound the son of Mac Nessa whispered about the betrayal in the witch’s ear.

Kathvar returned to his herbs as he asked, “And you did not see fit to ignore her order?”

“I have a plan. It is a good plan. A plan that should see us well on the road to our goals.”

“A plan like trying to infiltrate the Connacht lines with the Galeoin, you mean.”

“That was a good plan. The witch stumbled on a solution. Otherwise, it would have worked.”

“It is not your place to design schemes, Longas. That is my task.” Longas shrugged again.

Kathvar thought he was turning out to be like his father: headstrong and unpredictable. “What is your scheme?”

“I will let it be known that the witch ordered Fergus’s death. When The Hound hears, he will not rest until her pretty red tresses hang from his roundhouse lintel.”

Or she will kill him first, Kathvar thought, but said nothing. “Leave me. I will send for you if I need you.”

He watched as Longas walked down the hill.

“Did you hear, Genonn?”

“I did,” Genonn said as he walked out from under the eaves where he had been hidden from view.

“And what do you think?” Kathvar asked with a sigh.

“I had thought my enemy in all this was Mac Roth. I heaved a sigh when she stabbed him in the throat. Seems I was wrong. I never thought Longas would have it in him. Still, it was a cowardly act. Stabbing a warrior in the back of the neck.”

“It was. We must warn Conall. Longas is a threat. He knows if Conall discovers the truth, he will not rest until he has the killer’s onions in his possession.”

“You, too, Father. He knows you are party to his secret. He will have to act.”

“He would have acted just now, surely.”

“No. Fedelm knew you were alone with him. He could not act. He will try. I suspect he will send assassins. He does not give off the aura of a man who would face you with a sword.”

“I will take precautions. Meanwhile, will you come with me to Dun Dealgan? Conall will be at the funeral and we can warn him of Longas’s deceit.”

“I will come. I want to pay my last respects to Fergus. I liked him. He might have had a blunt wit, but he had a very sharp sword.”

“He did, but that sharp sword did not protect him from his blunt wit. You should heed that, my Son.”