Genonn cursed roundly. The gates of Emain Macha were closed. There were warriors atop the gatehouse, spears bristling. Others were standing between the gates and those seeking entrance. He did not doubt they were Red Branch. To have the elite warriors reduced to guard duty was strange. As far as Genonn was aware, the warriors had never guarded the gates. Waiting on the edge of the forest beside the road, he could see the angry faces of the sellers as they labored past.

“How’re we meant to live?” a burly smith asked of a youngster pulling a handcart piled with ironwork: brackets, hooks, and the like. Probably used to advertise his skill rather than items for sale. “Ain’t right. It just ain’t right.”

“No, Da, not right at all,” the youngster said, a bored expression, the true indicator of his feelings.

Genonn had heard many such complaints from those returning up the road, mostly traveling merchants, who were angry at being refused entry. Their livelihood depended on access to markets to sell their wares, and Emain Macha was the biggest marketplace for leagues.

Fedelm was beside him, staring across the plain, watching Bradán and Lee, who had ridden to the gates to question the guards. He could see Bradán leaning out of his saddle, talking to a guard with a spear and a helmet. Lee sat beside him, squirming, restless to get into Emain Macha. For one who claimed to be of royal blood, the boy was fascinated with everything royal. He was meant to have spent his first seven years in the royal seat of Tara. Admittedly, Emain Macha was more splendid, but would a prince really show so much fascination? He shook his head and sighed, wondering if anything would ever be simple.

“You sound as though you doubt yourself,” Fedelm said.

“Do I? Maybe I do. So much has happened since we sat on that hill while two armies hacked each other into ribbons. I’m…” he trailed off and shook his head again. “No idea what I am,” he admitted.

“What d’you think is going on?”

“I have no idea about that either,” he replied, thinking Conall would most likely be in the middle of whatever was happening.

Where are you, Old Bull? he wondered again as he gazed at the line of merchants mumbling their way south. If there was ever a warrior who could stir up a hornet’s nest, it was Conall. He wondered whether the warrior had taken most of the Red Branch away to attack Crúachain. It was a possibility. The warriors on the gatehouse could just be a small cohort. But even as he thought about it, Genonn realized it was unlikely. The Red Branch had just fought a significant battle and would be licking their wounds like everyone who stood in the two shield walls on the hill of Gáirech. No, it would be something else. He would not lay a wager against Conall being involved, but it would be something else.

“They’re coming,” Fedelm said.

Bradán and Lee seemed to be racing. They drew rein, and Bradán grimaced, breathless, before saying, “A warband was put to the sword somewhere between here and Crúachain. Thirty warriors smashed bloody. They have sealed the dún because they fear it is another invasion from Alba.”

“That’s idiocy,” Fedelm snapped. “We would have heard if a British warband had attacked the area. Which eejit dreamed that up?”

Bradán shrugged. Genonn agreed with her, but he understood the motive behind the locked gates. He was in no doubt Longas was using the slaughter of a warband as an excuse to bar entry. With Conall on the rampage and rumors of his seeking bloody revenge, the usurper was right to be scared.

“What are we going to do?” Bradán asked.

“There’s not much we can do. With the Red Branch barring the gates, I will not be given access. He will have warned them not to let me in.”

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In truth, Genonn thought he would be lucky if they did not kill him.

“You would give in?”

“What can I do?”

“Growing some magairlí might be a start,” she hissed, turning her horse around and riding back into the forest.

“And what good would they do in these circumstances?” Genonn shouted after her.

He wanted to smack Bradán with the flat of his sword; the youth’s grin said he knew what use a pair of balls would be, even in the current circumstances. As if Genonn needed reminding what the two of them were up to whenever they got the chance. Instead, he turned to Lee, who was staring after Fedelm, and wondered again if Macc had been the boy’s grandfather. Did he see the likeness because Niamh suggested it? He could not recall. It remained elusive, even though it happened only a few days before.

“What’s happening?” Lee asked. “What’s wrong with Fedelm? Where’s she going?”

“I suppose we had better follow and find out.”

They found her a league up the road, making camp. She had not lost her sudden foul humor during the ride away from Emain Macha. Her face appeared as thunderous as the clouds threatening a downpour. The fire was lit, the aroma of cooking enticing, so they joined her in camp. No one spoke but concentrated on hobbling their mounts, brushing and feeding them in silence.

Finally sitting down, Genonn ventured, “Smells good.”

Fedelm responded with a noncommittal grunt and continued stirring whatever was in the pot. Genonn thought he could smell thyme and maybe parsley. He had no idea what was in the cauldron, but going by the aroma, it did not matter. When traveling with a druidess trained in herblore, the benefits were noticeable.

“What are you cooking?” Lee asked.

“Dinner. What else would I be cooking at this time of day? Eejit.”

“No, I mean–”

“Leave it, Lee,” Bradán interrupted, taking his wrist.

“Oh, he’s to leave it, has he?” Fedelm said with a snort. “And you, do you have any idea what’s happening beyond your own little happy place. No. In me hole, you do. You’re all the same, so y’are.”

Bradán held up his palms and backed away into the forest. “Call of the wild,” he said over his shoulder as he went.

“Lee, why not go and relieve yourself, too,” Genonn suggested.

“I don’t need–”

“Well, go and help Bradán, then.”

Genonn waited until he could hear Lee’s stomping to be a safe distance away before he said to Fedelm, “You offered to listen when I needed someone to talk to.”

“So, that was then, and this is now.”

“Well, I make you the same offer. What is troubling you, Fedelm?”

“What makes you think something–”

“Please accept I have a modicum of intelligence,” he interrupted. “I know something is troubling you and not just the death of Cú.”

She seemed about to retort with more rancor but changed her mind. “I’m sorry. It’s all too much for me. I’ve lost him... You’ve lost your father, and none of us can do anything. We’re helpless as a new litter of wolfhounds. The guilty are behind their palisades protected by armies, and we’re out here crying for our mother’s teat.”

“They will pay for what they have done, Fedelm. You have my oath.”

“Your oath is not enough.” The anger crept back into her voice. “Sorry. I don’t mean any insult.”

He felt a fleeting smile break through his guard. “I take no insult. I know things appear insurmountable. There are reasons for your anger and your lack of faith. But you still have my word. Those responsible will pay even if it means my death.”

“And where are we to begin?”

“There’s the rub, for sure. Where to begin? I am open to suggestions,” he said, wondering whether he could keep his promise.

“I’ve none.” Fedelm picked up her spoon and stirred the contents of her cauldron.

“No. I have no idea either, but I am sure we will think of something. We should take a night’s rest and resume thinking in the morning.”

“Is it safe to come into camp?” Bradán called from somewhere on the forest edge. Genonn wondered if he had stayed hidden and listened to their conversation.

“Where’s Lee?” he asked as the young warrior sat on a fallen log.

“Off chasing the faeries, as you’d expect of someone so fae.”

“You think him fae?” Fedelm asked.

“Well, more touched than fae, I’d say.”