"You know perfectly well it is," Grainne said to him.

Ferghus eyed her sidelong. "Fetch the uisghe, then. I've a fancy to play a tune first."

She nodded at Conor and Caolinn, who ran to fetch a jug of uisghe and a tray of earthenware cups. Brennan poured while Ferghus removed his harp from its case and checked the tuning with loving care. The harp looked old, the wood smooth and polished through long handling. It was a simple, unadorned instrument, but the sweeping lines were wrought with exquisite beauty.

The harpist tossed back his cup of uisghe, so quickly my throat burned in sympathy. He closed his eyes and smacked his lips, then held his cup out to be refilled. He drank half of that, then settled the harp on his lap.

"Listen," he said to us, and began to play.

To describe perfection is an impossible thing. Ferghus played the harp the way a swallow takes wing, effortless and graceful. The first notes brought tears to my eyes. His playing was so beautiful, it made me want to laugh and weep all at once. My heart ached within my breast, pierced by the sheer loveliness of it.

And then he began to sing.

He sang well, although no better than any number of musicians I'd heard in the Queen's salon. It was his harping that uplifted the song and made it soar. It was so beautiful, it was hard to concentrate on the verses he sang. It was some long minutes before I realized I recognized the tale he was telling, or at least some version of it.

It was a story of the Maghuin Dhonn, and how they had suffered under the yoke of Tiberium. How they had tried to accommodate them, to assimilate them, as they had accommodated the folk of the Cullach Gorrym, the Tarbh Cro, the Eidlach Or, and the Fhalair Ban.

How they had failed.

How their people had sickened and died as the army of Tiberium occupied the land, taming it with stone roads, bringing strange diseases from faraway places. How they had dwindled and fled to the wild places, the last bastion left to them.

How they had prayed to their untamed gods and goddesses and to the Maghuin Dhonn herself, their diadh-anam, the lodestone of their existence. How the greatest magician among them, mighty Donnchadh, fasted and prayed. How he had drunk the sacred broth and gone alone to the Place of the Gates, and beheld a vision of the future.

How mighty Donnchadh had seen how it might be averted through great sacrifice, and how he had transformed himself into a living incarnation of the Maghuin Dhonn, the mighty Brown Bear. How he had suffered himself to be sold into captivity and tormented for sport, until in his wrath he tore loose the stakes that bound him, and slew the Tiberian Governor of Alba.

How he had lost his humanity and saved his people The song ended, the last notes fading into a profound silence. Ferghus sat with head bowed, his cheek leaned against the uppermost curve of his harp. I thought about his song, weighing it against the account of the Tiberian historian Caledonius, and the tale Drustan mab Necthana had told me about a bear-cub raised on human flesh by a maddened magician of the Maghuin Dhonn.

I did not know where the truth lay.

"My lord, you play most beautifully." It was Phedre's voice that broke the silence. Ferghus lifted his head and gazed at her. "And yet I am confused by your story."

"How so?" he asked.

Phedre rested her chin on her fist, contemplating him with lustrous eyes. " 'Twas Cinhil Ru of the Cruithne who united the tribes of Alba and drove the Tiberians from your soil. How is it, then, that the Maghuin Dhonn claim the credit?"

"Magic is a deep thing, lady, and the ways of gods are mysterious." Ferghus stroked the gleaming wood of his harp. "Cinhil Ru rallied the Four Folk of Alba by telling them false tales about bears fed on the flesh of babes. He told them the Maghuin Dhonn had gone mad, that the same fate would befall all of them if they did not stand together. And so they did." He showed his white teeth in a smile. "And afterward, once the Tiberians were gone, there came the Master of the Straits. For many, many years, Alba was protected."

"Now that, surely, had naught to do with the Maghuin Dhonn," I said.

He turned his smile on me. It looked friendly, but the appearance was belied by the restless glitter of his eyes. "Who can say? All things are bound to one another, though the bindings are hidden to the eye. I am a skilled bard, but a poor magician."

"Speaking of bindings ..." I tapped the croonie-stone.

"Ah, yes." Ferghus set down his harp with care and drank the rest of the uisghe in his cup. " 'Twas wrought in fairness, Morwen's binding, on taisgaidh ground. Yet you claim insult for the lad's carelessness?" he asked Grainne.

"I do," she said. "It matters not where the charm was wrought. He was summoned against his will while he was a guest in my household. Will you have the world claim the Lady of the Dalriada cannot protect an honored guest in her own hall?" Grainne shook her head. "Indeed, I claim insult. But I am willing to forgive it in exchange for the mannekin trinket."

Ferghus looked longingly at the uisghe jug. "Is that the whole of your offer?"

"Would you have me sweeten it?" She laughed. "Fine, take the jug."

"I will." He reached across the table, snatching it agilely and setting it before him, then rose. After replacing his harp in its leather case, he slung the case over his shoulder. "I will take your offer to Morwen, and to Berlik, too. He will want a say in the matter." His voice changed. "Tell me, Grainne. What if they refuse? Will you break our long truce?"

His words hung in the air. Everyone looked to Grainne, who frowned. "So long as the lad is unharmed, I will not break our truce," she said slowly. "But so long as he is bound, the Old Ones will be unwelcome in my holdings."

"Ah, lady!" Ferghus' gaze lingered on Conor. " 'Tis a hard answer."

Grainne nodded. " 'Tis a hard question."

"So be it." The harpist plucked the uisghe jug from the table. "I'll return ere too many days have passed."

With that, he took his leave.

Chapter Twenty-Three.

In the days following the harpist's visit, we spoke of little else.I tried not to engage in the speculation, for I could see it troubled Conor, and I felt for the boy. He took to absenting himself to pay long visits to the ollamh Aodhan, which I thought was to the good. The ollamh had a foot in both worlds, and he would give the boy good counsel.

For my part, I was curious about the disparity between the history Drustan had related and the harpist's tale. I asked Dorelei for her thoughts, but she was reluctant to discuss it.

"Can you not leave it be, Imriel?" she pleaded. "You've been told it's ill luck to speak of them. Do you not believe it yet?"

I ran a finger beneath the strand of red yarn tied around my left wrist. "I only want to know the truth."

"Your wants are dangerous things," Dorelei muttered.

I gave her a hard look. "You've had no cause to complain of them lately."

It was the first time we'd quarrelled; or come near to it, anyway. Like Conor, I decided it would be best if I absented myself for a time. I saddled the Bastard and rode to the seashore, where I spent the better part of an afternoon reading the book of love letters Sidonie had given me.

Aside from pity for the plight of Remuel L'Oragen and Claire LeDoux of Namarre, I found myself unmoved. It was an unnerving sensation. I sat on a boulder and stared at the sunlight sparkling on the waves, trying to recapture the feelings I'd struggled so hard to suppress.

I couldn't do it.

They were still there. Of that, I was sure. Aodhan hadn't lied. I could sense them, in the same way I'd been aware of my own helpless will the night Morwen had summoned me. But I could no longer feel them.

I'd thought myself glad of it until I'd tried. Now I was no longer sure. I tugged at the croonie-stone, wondering what would happen if I removed it. And then I thought about that night. Come here, Morwen had said, and I'd gone, obedient as a lamb to slaughter.

"Blessed Elua," I murmured. "What will you?"

There was no answer, save from the Bastard, hobbled nearby. He lifted his speckled head and snorted, gazing at me with incurious eyes. So I sighed, untied his hobbles, and rode back to Innisclan.

By the time I arrived, I'd nearly forgotten the harsh words Dorelei and I had exchanged. Seeing her, I remembered and made an apology. She accepted it with a smile and tendered an apology of her own, and the matter was forgotten.

So instead I spoke to Phedre regarding the Maghuin Dhonn, asking her which version of their history she believed true, Drustan's or Ferghus'.

"Like as not, the truth lies somewhere in between." She was quiet for a moment. "Do you believe the tales of shapeshifting?"

I thought about Morwen. "Mayhap."

"Caledonius wrote that when they skinned the bear, they found a human body beneath its pelt," Phedre observed. "I don't know, love. It may be that what Ferghus said was true, that it was powerful magic at work. And it may be that Drustan said was true, and the Maghuin Dhonn succumbed to madness nonetheless." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "One truth does not discount the other."

"No," I agreed. "It doesn't."

We were both silent then, remembering Daranga, where dark magics were at work and madness held sway. Where I had been enslaved through a quirk of unhappy fate. Where Phedre and Joscelin had rescued me, and averted a great evil.

"All things are bound to one another," Phedre mused. "Though the bindings be hidden to the eye. 'Tis an interesting notion."

"The harpist was an interesting fellow," I said wryly.

She laughed. "Grainne thinks so."

"The Lady Grainne has ...interesting ...tastes." I eyed her. "You haven't...?"

"No, no." Phedre looked amused. "That was a long time ago. She was merely curious, I think."

"What of Hyacinthe?" I asked.

"Hyacinthe." Her expression warmed when she said his name. "I'll tell you one thing. I'll be glad when we're safe under his aegis."

It wasn't exactly an answer, but it wasn't exactly my concern, either. Once, not long ago, it would have bothered me. Now the sharp edges of my jealousy seemed worn away. Some of it, I thought, was maturity. I'd grown and changed a great deal in the past year, and I'd even learned somewhat of what it meant to be in love.

But some of it wasn't. Some of it was due to the muting of my own desire.

Later, I tested the notion, forcing myself to envision somewhat that should have tormented me: Maslin de Lombelon in Sidonie's bed.

It gave me a distant pang. Somewhere, on the far side of the ollamh's protections, I knew it hurt. I knew it provoked irrational jealousy, bitter and hateful. But I didn't feel it, except as a vague irritation; a response, mayhap, to somewhat I'd read in a book or heard in a friend's tale. To be honest, I was in two minds as to whether I wanted to feel it. Mayhap what I'd said was true and this curse was an unexpected blessing after all. To be sure, it made my life with Dorelei easier to bear. We'd exchanged words, yes, but even that wasn't entirely a bad thing. It was a sign that the relationship between us was growing real. We were no longer walking on eggshells around one another, fearful of giving offense.

And Sidonie...

Ah, Elua! We hadn't been sure, either of us, that our feelings would last. Mayhap it was for the best if mine withered and died, smothered under a blanket of Alban sorcery. Mayhap my feelings for Dorelei would grow into the kind of passion for which I yearned.

So I told myself, anyway.

In the meanwhile, we continued to enjoy the hospitality of the Lady of the Dalriada, awaiting a response from the Old Ones. Several days passed. Eamonn and Joscelin were engaged in plans for the academy and library-like all Siovalese, Joscelin had a keen interest in architecture. Our bored escort of D'Angeline and Cruithne soldiers were pressed into service, digging trenches to lay the foundations for the library. Phedre and Brigitta were content to explore the treasure trove of books we'd brought, having conceived an unlikely friendship on the course of our journey here.

And I, I spent a good deal of time with Dorelei.

By day, we rode for pleasure and for sport, hunting and shooting for the pot. She taught me to use the Cruithne short bow and we made a game of it, trying to outdo one another. Betimes, some of the Lady's children accompanied us; at other times, we ventured out alone. We grew easy with one another.

By night, we spun out our evenings with long meals in the hall of Innisclan, telling stories or playing music afterward. The Lady's clan was a high-spirited lot, and if there was any strangeness in the way they treated Conor, it soon passed. The protection the ollamh had placed on me held. When we retired to bed, there were no pipes, no laughter, no mysterious tug on my will. Indeed, save for the yarn fetters and the croonie-stone, my life held a semblance of normalcy.

And then the Maghuin Dhonn returned.

As with the harpist's visit, they appeared as the sun was growing low in the west, shortly after we'd sat down to dine. This time, we were alerted by shouts from our escort's encampment, sending us hurrying outside into the yard to see what transpired.

There were three of them. They came from the north, pacing unhurriedly over the green hills, their long shadows pointing eastward toward Terre d'Ange. I felt my heart stir within me as they drew near, filled with a mix of hope and uncertainty.

Urist's men turned out, wary and watchful, forming a double cordon through which the Maghuin Dhonn must pass. The Old Ones ignored them. I could smell their scent on the evening breeze, musk and loam and berries. The air felt dense and heavy with it.

Two of them, I knew; the harpist Ferghus and the woman Morwen. I didn't know the third. A man, a big man, half a head taller than the harpist. Like Morwen, he had eyes as pale as mist, framed by raking woad claws. Berlik, I guessed; both had mentioned the name. Although the evening was warm, he wore a bearskin robe, rendering him even bulkier.

In the yard, Grainne stepped forward, Brennan at her side. The rest of us arrayed ourselves cautiously. Dorelei moved closer to me, and Joscelin's hands rested on his dagger-hilts.

"Lady." The big man greeted Grainne. His voice was deep and husky. I couldn't place his age, but he had the most somber, sorrow-laden face I'd ever seen.

Grainne inclined her head. "My lord Berlik."

"I have heard your offer," he slowly. "For six days, I have fasted and prayed. Some glimpses of what will be have been afforded me. Others have been denied." Berlik turned his head and his strange, pale gaze rested on me, palpable as a touch. The woad-marked flesh below his eyes sagged with weariness. He turned back to Grainne. "The trinket belongs to Morwen, and she will not be swayed. The offer is refused."

Someone drew a sharp breath. I swallowed hard against a intense surge of disappointment, mingled with a tinge of treacherous relief. Glancing at the woman Morwen, I saw no triumph in her face, only a strange, careful gravity. The leather bag that had hung around her throat before was missing.

"Do you deny the insult?" Grainne asked.

"I do not." Berlik shook his head, stirring shaggy black locks. "I bear an offer in turn. Do you forgive the insult, I will swear that no member of the Maghuin Dhonn will harm so much as a hair on the lad's head, anywhere on the length and breadth of Alba's soil."

Grainne was silent a moment. "By what oath?"

"By stone and sea and sky," he murmured, "and all that they encompass. By the sacred troth that binds me to my diadh-anam."

"And the Maghuin Dhonn have so consented?" she asked the other two.

"We have, Grainne," Ferghus said. All the lightness had fled his voice. "Not a hair on his head, not a scratch on his skin. Not by any means."

"I don't understand." Grainne took a step closer to them, searching their faces, and Morwen's last of all. "Why? If you mean Imriel no harm, why not surrender the trinket?"

"I cannot." Morwen looked small and diminutive before the Lady of the Dalriada, but she raised her chin to meet the Lady's eyes, steady and uncowed. "It is he who means us harm. This may be our sole protection against it."

"What?" I raised my voice in protest, pricked by the comment. "I intend nothing of the kind! Or at least I damnably well wouldn't if you'd leave me be."

Morwen fixed me with her moon-pale gaze. "You do not know what will come to pass."

"This is absurd," Joscelin said flatly. "Lady, I do not mean to gainsay your rule, but-"

"Ah, no!" The harpist Ferghus raised a warning hand. "Do not think it, warrior. We are three and unarmed, but we are not powerless." There was an edge to his easy smile. "You would buy our lives at certain cost. Meanwhile, the trinket lies elsewhere, hidden. You do not know who will claim it if we fall. Be wise, and accept our oath."

"Prince Imriel," Grainne said. "What will you?"

Dorelei's fingers dug into my elbow, but there was no guidance in her grip, only fear. I frowned and looked at Berlik. He stood patient and unmoving, his massive head bowed a little. I pried Dorelei's fingers loose from my arm and walked forward to confront him. Beneath his shadow, the scent of loam and berries was stronger, mingled with the rank odor of his bearskin robe. I had to crane my neck to see his sad, heavy face.

"What she said is a lie," I said to him.

"No." There was sorrow in his pale, shadowed eyes. "It may or not be many things, but it is not a lie."