“Don’t get too comfortable, lads.” said Murrough.

He carried the remaining lunch bowls and utensils to a side table. Finn sighed and stood up.

“What things do you need moved now?” he said.

“Just you. Come with me.”

Finn felt Donal’s eyes upon him once again, and once again he refused to meet his brother’s gaze.

He followed Murrough out of the house toward the stables. Someone put a saddle on the back of his uncle’s horse. Murrough entered one of the stalls, placed padding and a saddle atop a brown horse covered in white spots and led it out.

“You’ll be riding Gála,” he said.

In twenty years, Finn had walked, brushed, fed and watered horses. He’d held the reins and driven a wagon between Ards Beg and Dunfanaghy three times. When it came to mounting and riding a horse, however, he was woefully inexperienced. He rode his uncle’s horse, Reatha, twice into Dunfanaghy.

“Can’t I ride Reatha?”

“Gála is good-tempered,” Murrough said. “You two will be fine.”

“Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you to a stone circle for some training. It’s time you worked some magic.”

“Should I go fetch Donal?”

“He’s got his own training with Niall today.”

That wasn’t the end of Finn’s questions but his primary focus was climbing the six-foot horse that stood before him. He needed three attempts to do it the last time he rode.

“Reins and mane in your left hand, left foot in the stirrup, reach around the pommel,” his uncle said. “Don’t forget to keep your right leg above the cantle as you swing it across.”

Finn climbed into the saddle in one fluid motion, to his surprise.

Murrough unhooked Raetha and climbed on top. He eased over to Finn and scanned him from his head to Gála’s hoof.

“Ready?”

“I think so,” Finn said. “It doesn’t feel as odd as I remembered.”

“Keep your calm and balance. The fit of the pommel and cantle will do the rest.”

Murrough gave the sides of Raetha a nudge with his heels and they walked to the main road. Finn imitated his uncle’s motion and Gála lurched forward. Both horses broke into a trot once he joined Murrough’s side.

“How am I meant to do magic?” Finn asked.

“Despite your best bluffs, I know you were listening when Siobhan explained to your brother the exchange of energy between planes,” Murrough said. “That was an introduction, of course. We’ll go over some finer details at the circle.”

“That’s not what I meant, uncle. How am I meant to do magic? Donal showed some aptitude with his throw, but what have I done to show I can do magic? Look at Siobhan: she’s a druid but her brother is not.”

“Ciarán isn’t a druid, that is correct. But she’s got four more brothers who are.”

“She does? She never talks about them.”

“They’re grown,” Murrough said. “Three of them have married off and have kids of their own. But all of the four have the ability to use druidic magic, even if they aren’t as powerful as Siobhan.”

“G’way with that,” Finn said. “She’s that strong?”

“Given the time you spent together, are you that surprised?” Murrough said. “Maybe keep it between us for now.”

“It seems like a thing a person would want to hear,” Finn said. “I’d want to hear it if it were about me.”

Murrough started to answer but abandoned his response. He looked skyward as if he’d jotted his thoughts on the clouds and turned back to Finn.

“We’ve leaned on her more lately, even before the events of the past few days. Finding balance and perspective while taking on more responsibility is not easy. Some take on too much at the start. Some put it all on themselves. Worse yet, some put it all on others. This evolution can be overwhelming for anyone, much less a potential druid prodigy.”

“As she grows into the role within the sílrad that we hope she’ll assume, I don’t want her to lean on her magic like a bridge leans on its piers.”

Murrough leaned in as if she were riding along with them.

“Again, I’m trusting you to keep all of this between us for now.”

Finn nodded and his eyes wandered up the gentle slopes and mountains of Horn Head on his right. They neared the brackish bog that met Dunfanaghy Bay at its head. Instead of following the road back toward town as they did this morning, Murrough turned right and followed a worn trail further west.

Hang on, the old man never answered my question, Finn realized.

“No sidetracks this time, uncle,” Finn said. “What makes you think I can do magic?”

“Aside from the gut feeling I’ve had about you boys since you were too little to talk?” Murrough asked. “Your mam told me.”

“She did not!”

“You were very young. Donal was a month old, and your dad was down in Donegal. A storm swept through that night and your brother would scream with every clap of thunder. A gust of wet wind blew in and doused a candle near the window. She told me you walked up the candle and lit it with just a look and a wave of your hand.”

“And she never spoke of it again.”

“She told your father and I,” Finn said. “Several years passed without another sign, and your dad thought it best if we dropped it. They both thought that the days of evil strong enough to require the sílrad to rise up were well in the past. Whether you had magic or not didn’t matter.”

They rounded the southern edge of the mountains and followed the path through drab olive turf and between flowerless bushes. This part of the peninsula was too rocky and uneven for any farming. Finn wondered what ahead of them could warrant enough trips to create the trail they followed.

“Yet they helped you monitor suspected Fomori,” Finn said. “Seems foolish of them, knowing what we do now.”

“Not foolishness. It’s hope,” Murrough said.

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He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head.

“Maybe complacency. We all hope that we leave the world smarter, better than when we entered it. We hear about the dark times our ancestors endured—or sometimes put others through—and we assume that people are better than that now for no other reason than ‘we know better.’ A mistake? Surely. But you don’t have to be a fool to make a mistake.”

They slowed to navigate a rocky part of terrain. From here the trail turned left and ran downhill. Gulls called to each other from a sandy shore on the left. A healthier shade of grass led ahead of them until it met the rocky edge of Horn Head’s northern cliffs.

An unnatural configuration several yards short of the cliff edge grabbed Finn’s attention. Several large stones, differing in size and shape, stood in a broken circle. As the pair drew near, the broken pattern showed an original layout of twelve stones. One had tipped on its side, and three were missing. Three additional stones were arranged in a triangle offset from the circle by 60 yards.

“That wasn’t so long,” Murrough said as they neared the circle.

They stopped two hundred yards from the circle next to a few trees. Murrough hopped down and wrapped the reins around one of the trees.

“Tie her up tight, in case she gets spooked,” he said.

Finn complied and secured Gála, giving an extra tug to be safe.

Murrough pulled a sheathed sword from a long leather covering that hung from his saddle.

“Before we get too far, I want you to have this,” Murrough said.

“Your sword?” Finn said. “Why?”

“It’s not my sword as it turns out. In our discussions over the past few days, there’s one obvious question you haven’t asked of me.”

Finn leaned back on his heels and rubbed the back of his head as he replayed the conversations in his head. When the answer came to him, he sank his shoulders and threw his head back in frustration.

“Who is your ancestor, Murrough?” Finn asked the sky above him.

“Manannán, son of Lir, foster—”

“—father of Lugh,” Finn said. “Of course you are. Then this sword is Fragarach? The Fragarach?”

“The Answerer itself. It’s said no one that has it put to their neck can tell a lie.”

“‘It’s said?’ Have you never tested it yourself?”

“I’ve never encountered a situation where I needed the truth from someone held at swordpoint,” Murrough said. “Though I have been tempted during my travels of late.”

“Why are you giving me this?” Finn asked. “I’m not ready. I’ve barely swung a sword.”

“Because you will need it. We’re heading down to that circle, and I’ll test you and teach some things. Still, there will be times when you need to pick up the sword, and I want you to have this sword.”

He handed the blade to Finn. The leather that wrapped its hilt was worn. Its crossguard was simple in shape with little ornamentation and a pommel to match. An intricate filigree pattern was etched into the rain guard, stopping short of the fuller. From crossguard to tip the blade measured two feet in length and lacked any of the patina that covered the exposed metal on the sword’s hilt. In the right light, Finn suspected the blade might glow.

“Thank you, Uncle. Truly.”

Finn re-wrapped the sword and tied it to the back of Gála’s saddle. He caught up with Murrough halfway to the circle.

“So what are you testing me on, exactly?” Finn asked.

“To see how much bard or filí is in you,” said Murrough.

“Oral history?” Finn said, his spirits rising. “I’m rusty but I like my chances.”

“You’re thinking of a seanchaí. You don’t need magic to be a seanchaí. Think of a bard like a seanchaí that has magic. With enough training, practice and ability, bards can become filí. A precious few progress to high filí. Beyond that, each province can name one ollav but the qualifications are fierce and the position is often vacant. Ulster, Meath and Leinster don’t have an ollav right now.”

Finn stepped within the circle and rocked backwards one step. The air was no longer thick with sea spray. It reminded him of the portal tomb: the air felt thin as he moved about but he did not struggle for breath.

“You felt that?” Murrough said. “The veil between this and other worlds and planes is thin here. Much like portal tombs, these circles can be used as doorways—in skilled hands. They are also great places to learn.”

“There are eleven planes that run parallel with our world. Each one is different by increments, each one has its own energy, but all of them are in the same location as ours. Some planes are accessed by all with little effort. Some lend themselves to more specific kinds of magic. Bards and filí often draw energy from Mag Ildathanna, the ‘multi-colored plane.’”

“With you so far,” Finn said.

“There are several ways to cast a spell,” Murrough said. “Each technique has its own use. The first is an adaig, or the ‘Shove.’ It provides the most outward force.”

Murrough turned to face a small group of trees 80 feet north of the circle. He extended his arms and then inhaled as he pulled them to his chest.

“Gáeth nerto.”

He flung his hands forward. A trail of parted grass led away from them. Within two seconds the trees were bowing away from Murrough’s extended arms, halfway to the ground. He brought his right arm back and then pushed it forward. After a few more seconds he did the same with his left. He pulled his hands back and dropped them to his sides, and the winds calmed.

“The longer one holds out their arms, the longer they can extend the cast,” he said. “But if you don’t keep cycling energy from our world back into the plane from where you’re pulling the wind, it creates an imbalance, and things fall apart.”

“How do you know which plane you are pulling from?” Finn asked.

“The simple answer when you’re learning is, ‘you don’t,’” Murrough said. “When you’re raw, you pull from planes to which you’re attuned by instinct. As you learn more and develop your skill, you’ll figure out how to target specific planes. It takes a tremendous amount of skill, though.”

“The second technique is the buail, or The ‘Punch.’ It’s a faster cast, but it’s less powerful than the Shove. One can hold it for a short amount of time, but they can’t recycle new energy in and out. It’s meant for quick spells.”

Murrough faced north and held up his right arm. He brought his hand back to his shoulder.

“Gáeth.”

He tilted his elbow outward and flicked his hand away, toward the trees. The leaves atop the trees rustled five seconds later.

“Finally, we have the cúairt, or The Circle. These are sustained spells without any of the force of the previous two techniques. This has the highest risk of failure because your hands have to sustain the push and pull with the same amount of energy. The upside is flexibility. You can make your circle horizontal, vertical or even diagonal. Sometimes the size you need to make is flexible as well.”

Murrough raised his hands to shoulder level.

“Ceilid.”

He moved his hands in a circle, keeping his palms diametrically opposed. After one full revolution he faded away.

“Murrough?”

“What?”

“What do you mean, ‘what?’” Finn asked. “Where did you go, you gobdaw?”

“Somewhere where lads still respect their elders, perhaps?”

Murrough laughed and reappeared where Finn saw him last, his hands still at his sides.

“Your turn,” he said. “You’re going to call some wind with a punch.”

Murrough recreated the casting motion, one movement at a time. Finn mimicked each one.

“What did you say?”

“Gáeth,” Murrough said. “‘Wind,’ in the old tongue.”

“Gáeth,” Finn said. “Nothing happened.”

“Say it right before you push.”

“Gáeth. What am I doing wrong?”

“First, stop,” said Murrough. “Breathe. Quiet yourself. Once you pull away energy from our world and put it in the other plane, energy from that plane wants to push through into our world to achieve balance. It’s not about forcing something to happen. You allow it to happen. You give it room to happen.”

“Not just out here with your arms,” he said, placing the heel of his hand on Finn’s chest. “In there, too.”

Finn closed his eyes, drew a long breath through his nose and held it for three seconds. He felt the air leave his lungs and cross his lips as he exhaled. He did it once more and goosebumps spread over his arms. After his third deep breath the air touching his arms turned cold.

“Gáeth.”

The air surrounding his entire right hand drew towards his palm as his arm moved forward. When his arm reached full extension the excess air leapt out of his palm and flew ahead of him.

Finn didn’t need to open his eyes to see Murrough’s displaced beard or the ruffling of his shirt. He felt it. He did it.