“The cauldron is in the chamber ahead,” Niall said. “For Maeve’s consolation, two of you should glance into the side rooms.”

Donal walked to the room on the left and poked his head through the door. The room was ten feet wide by fifteen feet long and had writing desks set up against each wall. He pushed further into the room. All of the desks were in various states of disrepair. A sound of something sliding across the stone floor kept Donal from leaving. Within seconds a rat scurried past his feet. He chuckled and stepped back into the main chambers.

Finn emerged from the other side room.

“Anything?” he asked.

“Just a rat,” Donal said.

“Rat beats mold,” Finn said. “You win.”

“Did either you see any sign that someone had been here lately?” Niall asked.

“It’s dark, and I’m not Maeve,” Donal said, “but no, I didn’t see any signs of that.”

“Well, we’ve come all this way,” Niall said. “Let’s check on the cauldron.”

Siobhan was in the next room before Niall could finish the sentence. This room was smaller and had two side rooms of its own, though one of them had caved in. The rest of the group followed and stood in a line five feet in front of it.

“That’s it?” Donal asked.

“Dya’mean by that?” Siobhan asked. “You’re looking at bleedin’ cauldron of The Dagda himself.”

The cauldron was saddle brown and stood three feet tall. It spread to a width of four feet and narrowed before the rim around its three-foot opening, encircled by a simple knotted pattern. Two large rings attached to opposite sides of the rim. It was large but not the ornate beacon of the Otherworlds that he expected.

“Are we going to do something with it, or is the plan just to gawk at it?” Maeve asked. “I can’t shake the feeling that we’re being watched somehow.”

“You’re perceptive, hunter, I’ll grant you that,” a voice called from their right.

“I hate being right,” Maeve said.

“You know you don’t,” Siobhan muttered.

A slender man in a muted violet cloak stepped out of the darkened side room and into the torchlight. He stepped to the side, allowing room for the archer to enter with an arrow knocked and aimed at Maeve.

“You,” Donal said.

Finn wrinkled his face and nudged his brother.

“Is this the creepy one from—”

“—The road north of Cashelmore,” Donal said. “With the weird green eyes.”

“I remember you as well, boy,” the man said. “Though, I must admit my surprise. I knew there were sílrad moving against our plans, but I did not suspect it was you lot that posed any legitimate challenge to us. Had I known who you were up north I might have introduced myself properly.”

Green Eyes glanced at his archer and chuckled. The laughter was not shared by his associate. Donal squinted his eyes at the pallid blue face under the spangenhelm and found eyes that glowed with the color of sickly wheat.

“I’ll tell you what: if green eyes are not to your liking, perhaps you’d prefer a different shade?”

Green Eyes pushed his hand toward the doorway to the main chamber behind them.

“Foillsigid.”

His eyes cooled to a dull lavender. A purple glow reflected off the side walls and faded before the group could turn around, but not before Donal realized that it wasn’t a rat he had heard in the side room.

Footsteps slid across the stone floor of the main room from its sides. Three undead archers stood in the far back, almost inside the entry corridor, their arrows trained on Donal and Niall. Four undead spearmen took positions on either side of the door, joined by several more soldiers just out of Donal’s eyeline, judging by the metal clangs that echoed off the stone walls. Straight ahead, far beyond the archers, footsteps marched in unison toward them.

“You’re Breaslin, then?” Niall asked.

Green Eyes let out a shrill, hollow cackle.

“Consider me your host,” he said. “Truthfully, my friends here are your hosts. You’re standing under their graves, after all. That makes me more of an officiant.”

“You wouldn’t believe how little I care about your semantics,” Niall said. “Why are you here instead of Breaslin?”

“Do not worry, MacRannell, I am here as well.”

The voice was smooth and cold, like a frozen bay head in January. A tall man glided out of the entry corridor toward the a far right corner of the main chamber, putting himself in clear view of Niall—and obscured from Maeve’s eyeline.

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The three men that accompanied Green Eyes near Cashelmore followed Breaslin into the room and stood next to the spearmen, out of their archers’ line of fire.

Breaslin sneered from the corner. His pale blue eyes needed no magic to pierce the darkness between the rooms. His jawline was too sharp for any beard to conceal, let alone his manicured scruff. His mantle was pure black, a shadow itself of the pale violet cloaks of his companions. His black walking stick stood navel high, topped by the head of a horned lion. Donal was too far to verify but he had little doubt its head was made of solid gold and not leafed in it.

“So these are my overachievers,” he said. “You eluded a dullahan, dispatched an ávertach and defeated a small army of sluagh. I have to admit, druid, that I thought you incapable of undoing that curse.”

Siobhan shifted in her spot and did not speak. Breaslin’s eyes widened.

“But it wasn’t you, was it?” he asked. “It was the bard! An aspiring one, at that.”

Finn’s hand began to move, an eighth of an inch at a time, up to his hip. He looked at Maeve and glanced at the doorway. She shook her head. Finn caught Siobhan’s eyes and tilted his head by less than an inch in the direction of the sorcerer. She dipped her chin almost as slowly. Finn’s eyes returned to Breaslin, his hand still creeping upward.

“Everyone gets lucky once in a while,” the sorcerer said.

“So it would seem,” Breaslin said. “Sadly, luck can only bring you so far. Yours brought you here to me, and here is where it runs out.”

“I don’t know,” Finn said. “My brother and I have had several years of bad luck. I feel like we’re due more than a few days of hard-won fortune.”

Breaslin pulled his head back and smirked. Finn’s hand was now at his waist, bent at the wrist and trembling. He twisted his torso to conceal it from view. A wave of nausea swept over Donal. The air between the brothers felt all wrong.

“Do you, now? I’m afraid that you’ll find out it doesn’t—”

“Tórann nerto!” Finn yelled.

The thunderous wave knocked centuries of dust from the stone walls as it passed through the doorway toward the archers and Breaslin. The sensation of nausea had left Donal at once, leaving behind a faint taste of metal.

“Donal!” Siobhan yelled.

Donal dropped to the floor at the sight of Siobhan’s arm moving backwards.

“Tórann!”

The floor vibrated when Dother and his archer hit the ground.

“Let’s go, lad!” Niall said to Donal. “Don’t think, just push into the left side. Finn, you’re behind me. Both of you, do your own archer a favor and stay out of the doorway.”

Donal pushed himself up and scrambled after Niall and Finn. His skin warmed.

“Linn lathach,” Siobhan said.

The floor beneath Dother and the archer liquefied at her command. Maeve had an arrow knocked and pointed above her comrades in the doorway, waiting for a clear target.

“Frém forása.”

The sound of rubbing branches followed him out the doorway. Siobhan was restraining them.

Finn followed Niall to the right side, offering Donal his best view of the battle yet. All of the undead archers and spearmen lied motionless. Breaslin’s three human allies climbed to their feet. The largest one did not regain his footing before Niall started swinging his sword and mace at him.

Finn switched Fragarach to his right and engaged the other human on the right side.

Breaslin seemed unaffected by the concussive wave. The head of his staff emitted a soft light as he circled his left hand and staff around each other. The eyes of the undead regained their sickly wheat glow and slowly pushed themselves up to their feet. Siobhan’s incapacitation of Dother did as much to clear the main room as Finn’s thunderous attack.

The first of Maeve’s arrows whistled out of the cauldron room, striking one of the undead archers in its skull. The color faded from its eyes once more.

Donal struck his foe’s hands with the back end of his spear and shoved him backwards. He side-stepped a desperate lunge and brought his spear shaft down upon the man’s arm, knocking his sword to the ground.

Donal hooked the back his opponent’s leg and toppled the man to the floor. He pointed the spear and held it close to the mans face.

“What’s wrong, boy?” Breaslin said, his hands still rotating. “Can’t do what’s necessary?”

Breaslin’s defeated colleague twisted his neck to face him.

“Éamon, what are you doing?”

“Judging the both of you.”

Breaslin’s attention returned to the undead minions he was attempting to reanimate. The henchmen looked back at Donal, his eyes wide and glassy. Neither said a word. Donal’s hands quivered as he struggled to resist Breaslin’s goading.

One of the undead spearmen hissed at Donal from behind. His time was up. He spun the spear around and knocked the man unconscious before turning his attention to the creatures rousing around him.

“Move up, ladies,” Niall said. “Siobhan, grab the cauldron.”

Maeve entered the room after dropping the third archer. Breaslin raised his staff upon seeing Maeve take aim and her arrow bounced off a purple circle centered on the head of the staff.

“You’ll need more than silver-tipped arrows to get to me,” he said.

“Got it!” yelled Siobhan from the other room.

She cleared the doorway holding the cauldron by both handles. A shrill voice called from behind.

“Guirid idlann.”

Dother had freed one of his arms. The air popped and sizzled. A bright flash appeared behind Siobhan’s left shoulder. She cried out as the spell knocked her forward off her feet and onto her left side. The cauldron rolled three feet away from her before righting itself.

Finn yelled Siobhan's name and moved the sword to his left hand. His eyes glowed blue as he knocked minions over with wind and thunder. He had broken away from the other human swordsman too quickly, however, and his foe caught up to him before he realized it. Finn would not be able to block the man’s next attack. Only an arrow from Maeve placed in the man’s right shoulder prevented Finn from paying the price for his mistake.

Niall’s battle with the brute continued. He parried and dodged whatever the man brought to him, but his opponent barely flinched from the blows Niall landed. It was Finn who finally knocked the brute off his feet with a well-placed thunderclap. The soldier struck his head against the wall behind him.

“That may not hold him long,” Niall said. “But maybe we can go after yer man in the meantime.”

Donal defeated his fifth minion and looked back at Siobhan. She clutched her left shoulder and muttered something. Her hand glowed green and then stopped. Her spell didn’t appear to alleviate her pain, but Maeve had helped her up to a hunched position.

“Gaibid!” Breaslin yelled.

A faint purple yellow wave spread from Breaslin. A shiver traveled up Donal’s spine as the wave hit him. The sensation of an unseen fist squeezing him spread across his body. It halted his attack, and a look toward Finn and Niall indicated they felt the same effects. After a few moments, however, normal feeling had returned to his extremities and Donal readied his spear for another round of battle.

“I would not advise that,” Dother said.

He stepped into the main room, his clothing and mantle covered in mud and fragments of branches.

“You left an archer alone, and now he’s taken aim on your friends,” he said. “From that distance he could put a single arrow through both of them before you can twitch.”

Dother passed Maeve and Siobhan and picked up the cauldron. He stepped toward Breaslin with the casualness of a man strolling down a city street. He handed it to his master and stepped to the side.

“All that pain and effort for this,” Breaslin said.

Breaslin raised the cauldron over his head and slammed it to the ground.