The wind blew from the north. After pulling up his hood, Genonn wrapped his arms around his chest. Despite the approaching summer, the sudden cold caused an evening veil of mist and dampness. He wondered if the battle had angered the Three Sisters before realizing it was a sentiment more in line with how Fergus would have thought. He shivered and shook his head. Dreams of spit-roasted beef being crushed by foolish pride caused a brief smile.

No meat, just damp and cold, he thought. You let the old madman get to you. Again.

“This is not cold,” he said into the gathering gloom. Fergus would be cold, covered in sod, and a cairn raised in payment for his stupidity. The warrior with a very sharp sword and very dull wit.

He crouched and vigorously struck iron against flint, trying to light his fire and cursing the stubbornness of the kindling, which did not offer the smallest tendril of hope.

“Tuatha take this damp,” he hissed as he threw his flint and iron into the loam. He could see little. Darkness had shrouded the trees quicker than he would have thought possible. The light in the clearing would not last much longer. Realizing he needed the fire lit while he could still see, he started to grub about for the iron and flint.

The words, “Not good at that, are you?” caused him to start and look up into the cloak of shadows, hiding the speaker and causing Genonn’s pulse to throb.

Forestry had never been his strength, but still, he cursed himself as a fool for not hearing the approach. He could die in this clearing, and no one would ever know.

I doubt he would care, a thought that flared before he suppressed it.

“Who’s there?” he asked, grasping the hilt at his waist. The sword was scant comfort. An iron ball would kill him before he could use it against a slinger.

There was a long pause, during which he thought he could hear whispering but was unsure. Finally, the detached voice said, “It’s me, Lee Flaith. Me da used to be High King.”

Used to be High King? Does he mean he’s the son of Connery? Genonn shook his head.

“You cannot be. Lee has been dead these past seven... or is it eight, summers? He died with King Connery at Glencree, killed during the invasion.” There was another long pause punctuated by what might have been more whispers.

“Dead? No, not dead. Although sometimes I wish I were, the way the hag’s treated me.”

“The hag?” Genonn asked.

“I won’t be called hag,” another voice said. Older and scratchy it explained the whispers, if only partially. “And I fed you proper, so I did, so shut your hole before I give you a dig with me crann bagair.”

“Aye, Niamh, who took me after the battle. Tied me to her belt and beat me with her cudgel for years. Taught me manners, so she says. Not sure I’ll have a use for them, but they’re on me like a cloak.”

Genonn could still not see anything of the speaker. He remembered the blond youth who had been the High King of Ireland when a pirate invaded, turning the settlements red and orange with blood and flame.

“Come and see if you have more luck lighting the fire,” he said, keen to put eyes on this boy. “I have bread and cheese enough to share.”

“The hag would be better,” the boy said as he walked into the darkening glade. “Better with a fire than I will ever be. Or you, come to that.”

Genonn relaxed. Whoever the boy was, he was barely into adolescence, tall, gangly, no threat.

“A fire’s a fire, regardless who lights it,” Genonn said.

“Who’re you calling a hag, bodalán? I won’t tell you again,” threatened the woman, following the boy into the clearing. She was waving a heavy stick for emphasis. Genonn could see how Lee would feel a rap with it for days.

The gloominess hid any detail of the speakers. All he could see was one was a young male and the other an old woman, cowled and hooded, protection from the cold, he guessed. Genonn stood, stamped his feet, and rubbed his upper arms. He could no longer see his breath steaming.

“A fire would be most welcome. As I said, I can offer you hospitality. There is bread and cheese in my bag. As soon as the fire is lit, you can help yourselves.”

“Don’t fret, old man. Hag’ll have a fire going in no time. Ow.” The last because, true to her threat, the woman had hit him. “Ow. Why the second rap?”

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“To be sure,” she said as she began bustling around the glade, gathering the drier wood and taking kindling from a sack on her back.

“Nothing easier than lighting a fire.” The old woman cackled as she set about striking her flint. Genonn sighed when a few tendrils of hope curled up from the kindling. “Nothing easier,” she repeated while leaning in to blow the embers into flames.

When the fire gave enough light for him to see, Genonn could not believe what his eyes were showing him. A young Macc Cecht had returned from the dead, not a young Connery.

“So, tell me why I should believe you are Connery’s son.”

“Can you not see the reincarnation sitting opposite?” Niamh said with a snort. “You won’t sit there and tell me he ain’t the spit.”

“He has a look of Macc Cecht. Lee Flaith’s father was High King Connery, not Macc Cecht.”

“Aye. And Macc Cecht was the High King’s da, so he was.”

Genonn shook his head, trying to see some sign of truth in the woman’s face, but her cowl and the shadows thrown by the fire revealed nothing. Her words did not make much sense to him. Macc Cecht was the king’s champion. How could he be his father? When he voiced his doubts, Niamh laughed and shook her head, staring into the flames.

“I am the son of Connery,” the boy said. “I was at Da Derga’s hostel. When it was all but over, Macc Cecht took me out through a culvert.”

It sounded to Genonn as though he was repeating something by rote. There was no intonation. No expression. It was as if someone had told him what to say and then beat it into him. He gazed at the cudgel beside the crone and wondered if it had more function than just teaching the boy manners.

“Macc Cecht died at the battle, ambushed on the rise at the back of the vale,” Genonn said. While running like a coward, he did not add. “Where were you when he died?”

“He took me deep into the forest. We found Niamh in a clearing, sitting beside a fire like this one. She took me so Macc Cecht could return to the battle and defend my father.”

“Aye. Knew who he was, too. Although the warrior was upset to hear it. Almost hit me when I called him granddad. Not sure if he was conscious of aging or angry about me knowledge.”

“How could you know Macc Cecht was the king’s father?” Genonn asked, fighting with his urge to dismiss the claims out of hand.

“No faith, you youngsters,” Niamh said, turning his frown to a smile. No one had referred to him as a youngster for many a year. “I’m old, it’s true. Sometimes think me back is trying to become me front, but these old eyes were ever strong. The one was like a slightly distorted image of the other, as though reflected in a curved copper bowl. Any fool could have seen the parentage. Besides, I knew Búachalla, and she told me who she’d lain with.”

Genonn took out a hunk of bread and chewed on it thoughtfully. If this was Lee returned from the dead, it could resolve many problems. The Five Kingdoms needed a High King to unite them. Hard times were pressing on the borders. The Romans had subjugated the Gauls and invaded Alba twice. The Romans are coming was Kathvar’s oft-spoken prophecy. Only time was standing as a defense against the coming invasion. Mac Nessa was no longer a practical candidate after the two armies witnessed him running from battle.

“What brings you to my fire, Niamh?” he asked.

“This is my fire, Druid. Left in your own care, you’d be freezing your magairlí off, cursing not paying attention to woodcraft when training on Ynys Môn.”

“That’s a point fairly given,” he said, the image causing a smile to crease his face.

“You might make a good justice of the people, but you’re a useless woodsman, so y’are.”

“You know me, Niamh?”

“Course I know you. I was bringing the brat to Dún Dealgan. Heard your da was there for the funeral of Mac Roi. Thought to bring this one back to where he belongs. Saw you on the road. Decided to stop by and say hello.”

“Kathvar’s gone south to consult with the defeated kings. Why are you searching for him?”

“All in the Five Kingdoms knows him to be the power behind the druids. Only way to get this boy on his throne is talking to the power,” she said with a smirk, as though imparting some hidden secret.

“The power of the druids? He could be. I am not one who has any opinion on the matter. However, I do think you are right. The Elders need to see the boy and decide what to do. You must take him to Caer Leb.”

“Sailing? Across the sea?” Niamh shuddered.

“Yes. By sea from Lúr Cinn Trá to Ynys Môn. I am yet to hear of any who can walk on water.” Genonn said, shaking his head. “Even when it is calm, which is seldom.”

“I’m not for no sailing,” Niamh said, shuddering again.

Genonn intoned some inane platitudes about the sea being less dangerous than people realized. At the same time, he thought the old woman would be wiser to show fear of those waiting for her on Ynys Môn. “Fair wind behind, and it will be over before you know,” he said.

“Aye, but when there’s an unfair wind, y’end up trying to breathe water and ruing the day you sailed.”

“What do you think, Lee?” Genonn asked. The boy shrugged and stared at the fire. “It’s not so bad. But you do not need to decide now; you can sleep and decide tomorrow.”

“Sounds sensible,” Niamh nodded. “I’ll guard while youse two sleep. Don’t sleep much anymore. Boy, get that fire banked. I hate the cold in me bones. Takes weeks to get it out after it’s seeped in.”

“Of course, y’old cailleach. When was the last time I let you grow cold? Ow. What was that for?”

“You think Cailleach’s better than hag, do you? I’ll put manners on you eventually, bodalán.”