Donal stared at the remnants of the Good God’s favorite possession, too stunned to say anything.

“What have you done?” Finn asked.

“Something I’ve wanted to do for months,” Breaslin said. “That thing was an eyesore. I hated it.”

“It was the cauldron of The Dagda!” Finn yelled.

“That was not The Dagda’s cauldron,” Breaslin said.

“Don’t play coy,” Niall said. “You know perfectly well what it was and why it was here.”

“I do,” Breaslin said. “It is a replica of the Cauldron put here to make you Sílrad Déithe believe it was safe—maybe even lure you into a trap someday.”

He flourished both hands out to his side.

“Even as a poor forgery, it certain accomplished both jobs.”

Breaslin measured the expressions of his five captives.

“Well, I’m flattered that you thought I possessed enough magic on my own to create an island-wide blight,” he said. “But we’ve been working studiously with it since we stole it those months ago.”

“Then why all this?” Finn asked.

“I didn’t think that needed—or deserved—an explanation. Look around you and the question answers itself. We just needed to know when you were about to move on the cauldron, and we got that answer a few days ago.”

He pointed to Siobhan.

“From her own father’s kin.”

“Lorcan,” Donal said.

“The man can’t help from being underhanded, it would seem,” Finn said.

Breaslin laughed and started to pace the room—a performance no one in the group requested.

“Lorcan? The man wanted nothing to do with me,” he said. “Worse yet, he wanted for little; I didn’t have the leverage to turn him. The one you should be mad at is Faelan.”

“Liar!” Siobhan yelled.

Breaslin brought up a hand to cover his wicked grin.

“Your petty familial squabbles are too small a scale for my concern,” Breaslin said. “I have no reason to lie for one brother over another. What I do have is a shared grief with Faelan. One I doubt any of you could understand.”

He walked past Maeve and Siobhan.

“None of you have been driven from land that has been rightfully yours. Ms. O’Connor’s kin ran. You MacLaughlin boys still have your home for no other reason than a widow’s pity.”

He turned into Finn.

“In spite of your current status, my family knew your people. Some of our branches intertwined. But when the MacSweeneys drove us out of Fánaid—out of Ulster, really—the MacLaughlins couldn’t bothered to help.”

“But Faelan understands that some injustices cannot be solved by English law or Brehon law,” he said. “Sometimes one must take more drastic measures to set things right.”

“Even if he needed an extra push to see things our way,” Dother said.

Green light pulsed in his irises as he bared his teeth with a sneering smile.

“Oi! Finn!” Donal hissed. “Did you see that?”

Donal glanced at his captor. Breaslin had stopped pacing, He glared at Dother until the sorcerer’s smile and eyes faded.

“His eyes glowed.” Finn whispered. “What of it?”

Breaslin regained his line of thought with a blink and caught Finn’s whispers, following is eyeline back towards Donal. He strode over to Donal and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Planning another burst of heroics?” Breaslin asked. “Faelan warned me of your temper when we met last in Creeslough. As if months of success could be derailed by a temper tantrum.”

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Donal’s field of vision narrowed. All he could see was Breaslin’s face at it leaned within a foot of his. That self-satisfied sneer, that arrogant gleam in his eyes. Donal felt he could end this whole business with one punch.

A bead of sweat formed at the top of Breaslin’s hairline. He dabbed it and leaned back.

“You certainly heat up a room,” Breaslin said. “But I promise you: any further heroic outbursts will end poorly for you all. I am capable of far worse torture than a little gloating.”

Donal jerked his body toward Breaslin but held his place. Dother jumped at the movement but his master did not flinch.

“Good boy,” Breaslin said.

He tilted his head toward Maeve and Siobhan.

“Their immediate fate is in your hands, after all.”

Breaslin turned back toward Finn and Niall.

Donal looked at Siobhan. Her right hand no longer clutched the wounded shoulder. She had slipped it down to her her waist and tapped her hip. She mouthed the word “knife,” keeping her teeth on her lip for an extra second to emphasize the “f.”

Donal squished his face at her before remembering that she had given him her mother’s golden knife once again. Donal looked up at the archer. Its lifeless focus never wavered from its target. His eyes returned Siobhan. He furrowed his brow and shook his head.

“Now I have to determine how much use you will be to me before the end,” Breaslin said to Niall. “You five and McMenamin are not the only descendants of the Tuatha Dé running around Ulster and Connaught trying to stop me. I would take it as a kindness if you could set up some introductions with other Sílrad Déithe and any of their sympathetic lords and petty kings.”

Donal appealed to Maeve, but she merely nodded with Siobhan in encouragement. Her eyes darted in the archer’s direction and back to him. She closed her eyes and raised her head as if something pleasant wafted past her, then lowered her head and opened her eyes, sliding them in the archer’s direction once more. She dipped her head and seemingly searched his face for an understanding look.

“You have to know what my answer is, Éamon,” Niall said. “And it isn’t polite.”

Siobhan and Maeve couldn’t have known what they were asking of him. The bowstring would slip from the archer’s hand with the slightest thought from Dother. Donal had to unsheathe, aim and hit his target before the sorcerer could process and react to what happened.

“I know your initial answer, of course,” Breaslin said. “But time wanes. I need to get back to the real cauldron in time for Crom Dubh’s Sunday, and if you won’t help me, I’ll end you all here rather than have you weigh down my return.”

Donal considered the possible places where a thrown attack could prevent the arrow from firing. The skull was an obvious target, but the archer’s hand would relax as it collapsed—no chance of missing both of them from that range. The torso was a bigger target, but he’d have to generate much more force to knock the body far enough off target. Any additional focus he put on power would be taken from accuracy. There was one point that, if struck, would ensure that the arrow would miss the ladies but it was the smallest target of the three.

“Let’s move things along, shall we?” Breaslin asked.

Breaslin produced a knife of his own from under his cloak and held it near Finn’s throat.

“I’ll start with the boys, then move on to the druid. This is ending here, it’s only a matter of how many of you come back to Kilmacrennan with me.”

Siobhan’s brows raised and her eyes widened. She nudged Maeve several times, but Maeve did not understand why.

Donal rested the end of his spear on the ground behind him with his left hand high. He removed his right hand from the lower part of the handle. Breaslin had his back to him. He hoped of fooling Dother into assuming both of his hands were occupied. He slid his hand behind his back and drew the knife slowly from its sheathe.

He thought about the last time he held the knife. He had nothing to lose back in Ards Beg. He faced an opponent he couldn’t believe was real from a distance no one expected could be bridged. The choices were throw it, fail and watch helplessly as his friend was attacked or stand there helplessly and watch knowing he tried nothing to stop it.

This moment was different. These were people he’d grown to care about deeply. They had trained him, encouraged him, protected him. They didn’t just expect him to try, they believed he could do it. They believed he could save them, at least in this instance. If he tried this and failed, they’d be gone and it would be his doing. He felt Shadow taking hold of his brain.

Donal put himself in their situation. He was the one under the arrow, and they were under the knife. What if they tried and failed?

Don’t be an eejit, Shadow told him. They would never fail you.

But what if they did? Would he hate them for failing in those last moments? Would he blame them for trying to save him, even if it didn’t work?

With his answers now secure, he closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. The heat from Mag Mon spread through his right arm and into the rest of his body.

He opened his eyes and looked at the archer. He launched the knife launched across the main chamber with an upwards arc of his hand from behind his back. The knife struck his target in the back of its bow hand, pushing it and the bow it held away from Siobhan and Maeve. Its arrow struck the side wall and clattered to the ground. Maeve helped Siobhan into a standing position, allowing her to send Dother backwards into the cauldron room with a gale.

Niall saw Donal’s throw and leapt at the chance to counterattack. He lunged at Breaslin, shoving Finn away in the process.

“Gaibid,” Breaslin said.

The sorcerer kept his hand up. Niall was held in place, the blade in his right hand inches from striking Breaslin. He attempted to close the distance but couldn’t move his sword closer. The effort caused him to grunt and grimace in pain.

Breaslin stepped out of the intended area of attack and examined the lacerations in the armor on Niall’s upper arm.

“They say that the pain from an ávertach wound never goes away.” Breaslin said. “Not fully. Maybe my friend can help you with that.”

The brute walked up to Niall and lifted his greatsword high above his head. After a moment of measurement, the blade came down towards Niall’s shoulder.