After building the cairn and saying their words, sending Fergus on his final journey, they returned to the dún to begin the feasting. A death demanded a feast. Genonn gazed at Cú Chulainn, supervising the roasting of the meat. There were two giant spits, each with a side of beef, being turned by retainers. Fat was dripping into the flames, sizzling and smoking, reddening his eyes and causing his mouth to salivate. He thought there were few better smells than beef roasting on the spit.

Scanning the crowd, he noticed that those gathered for the feast were mostly Ulster warriors who had survived Gáirech. It was a testament to the company Fergus kept. The warriors were visibly at odds with their somber faces. Seeing a warrior on to Tir na nÓg was meant to be a celebration. Genonn thought no one wanted to admit the battle had been a folly, and their faces reflected that desire. Let’s be happy and shout from the ramparts about the glorious passing of our comrade, he scoffed to himself.

Bradán coughed, breaking into his thoughts. He wondered why the warrior of Connacht had accepted his father’s commission. He claimed to be captain of a small fían, but Genonn had always seen him as Medb’s man. Some said Bradán was the most likely replacement for the late Captain of Guards, who died during the battle, stabbed in the neck by the woman he was supposed to be protecting. Tuatha, but she is evil, he thought, shaking his head.

He returned his attention to his father as Kathvar said, “You are wasting your talent with this ‘justice of the people’ nonsense. You must–”

“You know nothing of what I do, Father,” Genonn interrupted. “You believe the people well served by their kings and chieftains. Or at least you claim to believe it.”

And despite your statement to the contrary, you still need me to take your name and mantle, he thought, sure his father was thinking of only one thing.

“And what is that supposed to mean, boy?”

“You paid some fían to hang an innocent man in Ráth Droma in the name of justice. The woodsman died because the chieftain coveted his woman. Where’s the justice in that?”

“That was a long time ago. Can you not find it in yourself to leave the forest and return to your path?” Kathvar asked, shaking his head.

“A long time ago, was it? To you, maybe. I remember it as though it were yesterday.”

“What was the woodsman’s name?”

“As if that’s relevant,” Genonn said, staring into the fire, feeling his anger as sweat beaded in the pores above his eyes.

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“Donncha. I remember, even if you do not. But what is important is the name of his father–”

“How can that be important,” Genonn interrupted. “You are trying to justify hanging the man.”

“Who was called Bricriu,” Kathvar ignored the interruption. “Unlike his son, Bricriu was not a woodsman, but a retainer of the chieftain–”

“Mathaman?”

“If you keep interrupting me, boy, you will never learn the truth.”

“What truth? You are hiding behind a shield of barely lawful codes, murdering a man to make a point, and put me in my place. Make me accept I failed by opposing the chieftain.”

Kathvar opened his mouth to reply, but Cú Chulainn arrived and stopped the argument with a barely veiled threat, which Genonn again ignored. “It’s just that he treats me…” he trailed off.

“You’re upsetting everyone. If you don’t stop this shouting on your own, I’ll force you, so I will.”

Genonn scanned the mourners standing around in groups. They were looking away. All except Fedelm, who was staring at him with her arms crossed under her breasts and a pout on her pretty lips. He turned back to the boy standing before him, hands on hips, head angled slightly, tight smile not reaching his eyes. The smoke from the fire was wafting around him, giving Cú Chulainn an ethereal quality. Genonn knew the boy hated killing but would not hesitate if he considered it necessary. Kathvar crossed his arms and glowered through the settlement gates.

“Sorry, Cú. It was callous,” Genonn said, trying to hide his mounting anger. His father started the argument and should have apologized first.

“Aye, well, let’s start with the feast. We must see Fergus on his way and do it in joy. Meat and mead, meat and mead.”

“Actually, I must leave,” Kathvar said, staring into the forest once more. Guilt, no doubt. “I will head south and speak to the kings of Leinster and Munster. We need their nominations for High King before Beltaine.”

“That’s the first I’ve heard of it, Father.” As usual, he’s running instead of facing questions.

“You think I tell you everything, boy? You have an inflated sense of your own importance. Especially for one who professes no connection with the Council.” Finished, Kathvar stormed off, calling Bradán to accompany him.

Genonn and Cú Chulainn watched as the old man led his horse out from the stables, followed by Bradán and six warriors. Genonn felt a surge of emotion when Fedelm rode her mare out behind the group. She had replaced her green dress with a tight-fitting leather vest and triús, worn to ease her ride. The clothes hugged her form, heightening her beauty and causing a lump in his throat.

“Where are you going?” he asked, holding her bridle while the others mounted.

“I have some business to conduct,” she replied, staring at Bradán trying to calm his mount. I wonder what she sees in him? He is just a boy. And then he remembered the rumors of her relationship with Cú, who was even younger.

“May the Tuatha guide you,” he said as he let go of her bridle.

She did not respond but just dug her knees into her mare’s flanks so she could join Kathvar in the vanguard of the riders. He tried to think what he had done to offend the seeress but could think of nothing.

After watching them ride from the dún, Genonn joined Cú Chulainn beside the firepit and said, “I, too, must leave.”

“Is that so? And where is it you need to be going in such a hurry?” Cú Chulainn asked.

“I have things to do.”

“Aye, we all have things to do. The most pressing is showing the fallen the proper respect.”