an bhfuil tu ansin? are you there?

An Domhan the World (the Merron's version of God) an La Deireanach the Last Day anois now anseo here ar son an Ghra for Love bhfeidir go n-inseofa doibh go bhfuil xxx anseo perhaps you would tell them that xxx is here bhi Ashkr anseo Ashkr was here bhi orm mo chac a dheanarmh I had to take a shit bigi ar bhur suaimhneas relax, be calm buiochas leat thank you ce he sin? who is that?

ce hiad na ceoltoiri who are the musicians?

cen fath an teanga coimhthioch why the foreign tongue?

ce thu fein? who are you?

conas ata tu? how are you?

croch leat! Agus na bi ag stanadh push off! And don't be staring croi-eile other-heart dha luch beaga two small mice fan liom wait for me fan noimead wait for a moment feach look fear saor free man (Is fear saor mise freisin-I am a free man too) filid ancient noble and hereditary title. A filid would be responsible for preserving the history of his people in oral form and then teaching it to the next generation. The preservation of history in its oral form was very much the traditional role, and any moves to write history down would have been frowned upon. The modern version of this word, file, has come to mean simply "poet."

gabh mo leithsceal excuse me gread leat shove off! Beat it!

inion daughter/daughter of le meas with respect luch mouse lucha rua red mouse luichin little mouse mac son/son of maith sibh a chunna good dogs!

mura mhiste leat if you don't mind nach bhfuil?/nach ea? isn't it/he/she?

nach Merron thu are you not Merron?

nil me ag eitilt I am not flying nil se reidh he isn't ready nil se go maith he isn't well nil Tabiyb ach ina coimhthioch Tabiyb is only a foreigner puballmor the words "puball mor" literally mean "big tent." Here the word "puballmor" signifies the Merron's distinctive conical tents rua 'gus dubh red and black rud eigin le hol something to drink sea yes seachtain deireanach last week sceal? a shortened version of "aon sceal?": what's the story? Any news?

suigi sios sit down (plural ) ta an Domhan do m'iarraidh the World is calling me ta Ashkr ag fanacht le Sol Ashkr is waiting for Sol tabhair noimead duinn give us a minute taim beagnach in eineacht leat I am nearly with you ta go maith? all right?

ta mo chac orm I have to shit ta m'uain tagtha it is my time/my time has come tarraing siar/tarraingigi siar pull back (singular and plural) ta se beagnach ina mhaidin it's nearly morning ta se caillte he is lost ta siad ina gcnap codlata they are fast asleep ta teanga na Hadran acu they speak the Hadrish tongue thoin caca shit arse togfaidh Coinin m'aitse? Coinin will take my place?

Acknowledgments..

With huge thanks to Svetlana Pironko of Author Rights Agency for her protection and guidance. A wonderful agent and friend. Also to my first publishers The O'Brien Press; in particular to Michael O'Brien for his fearlessness.

Many, many thanks to all at Little, Brown who have thrown themselves so enthusiastically into the Moorehawke experience. You guys have been amazing.

Many thanks and much love to Sorcha DeFrancesco (Ni Cuimin) and Phil o Cuimin who gifted me their beautiful conversational Irish, and to Gabriel Rosenstock for correcting my spelling and grammar. Any remaining mistakes are all down to my ignorance and are my fault entirely.

Thanks to Pat Mullan, whose kindness and generosity of spirit opened a door I had begun to think was locked for good. And always, thank you, Catherine and Roddy.

extras.

meet the author.

Celine Kiernan.

Born and raised in Dublin, Ireland, CELINE KIERNAN has spent the majority of her working life in the film business, and her career as a classical feature animator spanned over seventeen years. Celine wrote her first novel at the age of eleven, and hasn't stopped writing or drawing since. She also has a peculiar weakness for graphic novels as, like animation, they combine the two things she loves to do the most: drawing and storytelling. Now, having spent most of her time working between Germany, Ireland and the USA, Celine is married and the bemused mother of two entertaining teens. She lives a peaceful life in the blissful countryside of Cavan, Ireland. Find out more about the author at www.celinekiernan.com.

Merron Religion, Ritual and Hierarchy.

The Merron are a fiercely proud and independent nation, self-reliant and bowing their knee to no royalty but their own. For centuries they have followed the seasons as pastoral nomads, living off their tribal lands, and trading their famous crafts with the settled communities they call "village folk" or "foreigners" (choimhthioch). However, their lives are rapidly changing for the worse. Under the violent and repressive rule of King Gwnther Shirken and his heir the Royal Princess Marguerite, the Merron no longer have freedom of movement to travel with the seasons, nor the right to follow their ancient way of life. They find themselves gradually squeezed further and further into confined territories of the Northland mountains, far from the grass plains they need to maintain their herds of horses, and far from the way of life which has provided for them for generation after generation. They see their people persecuted and their religious leaders tortured and killed as part of the Shirkens' unrelenting effort to control all aspects of life in the Northland Kingdom. The Merron have become a desperate people, fast running out of time and options.

Each Merron clan has its own territory and, except for the annual gathering (an aonach) where the four tribes gather for a month-long fair, the clans rarely travel beyond the long established borders of their ancestral homes. To encroach on another clan's territory would be a terrible crime against Merron civil and religious law. Should a clan be forced to make such a move, even against their will, it would be expected that they make great reparation to both their God and their fellow clans or else find themselves outcast from the nation. To travel to a land where no tribe has ever dwelled is to move far from the sight of God (An Domhan). Should a clan find itself the first Merron in a new land, they would need to "make a bridge" between themselves and An Domhan and so awaken God to their presence. Failure to do so would condemn them to an existence separated from An Domhan and outside the natural order of things.

There are four tribes of Merron: Snake, Hawk, Bear and Panther. Though each tribe originates from a different area of the Northern Europes, and each has slightly differing traditions and cultures, all consider themselves Merron and all speak the Merron tongue. The noblefolk we meet in this book are envoys chosen by a council of all four tribes to negotiate on their behalf in the Southlands, and are religious and military leaders from the Panther and Bear tribes. Panther and Bear Merron would consider themselves the most traditional of the tribes, still following closely the fundamental principles of the Merron's ancient religion. Bear and Panther Merron often refer to themselves as the People (in reference to their being those most closely linked to An Domhan) but any followers of An Domhan are entitled to be considered one of the People.

The People practice an extreme and fundamental form of pantheism. To them, God is everything and everything that exists is but a manifestation of God. So to the Merron a human being is the same as a tree, a tree is the same as a rock, a rock is the same as a dog-because all of them are God in its many forms. God's most pure expression-its consciousness or its soul, if you like-is referred to as Croi an Domhain (the Heart of the World) and when a Merron dies he or she may walk with or within this consciousness as an honoured and beloved manifestation of God's heart, at once one with God but retaining their own individual personality and thoughts.

An Domhan's most treasured representatives amongst the living are those people called the Caorigh (pl.). They are considered to be the closest of all living creatures to Croi an Domhain and as such are worshipped as the purest manifestation of An Domhan. They usually live long and honoured lives amongst the Merron, during which they lead Merron religious ceremonies, offer their blood as sacrifice to An Domhan and take "vision quests" in order to divine the future or communicate with An Domhan. As with all Merron ranks and higher professions, the title of Caora is hereditary, so the children of Caorigh will inevitably grow up to be the next generation of Caorigh. Sometimes it is an Aoire who will father or bear the child of a Caora but mostly Caora of one clan will reproduce with those of another. In general there can only be one Caora per clan, but for a Caora to have a multiple birth (twins, triplets etc) would be considered fantastically auspicious and those children would be particularly honoured by the clan into whose care they were eventually given.

The Caorigh are protected by a group of warriors known as na (fir/mna) Fada (the Long (Men/Women) Born into their titles, na Fadai (pl.) are sent to special camps where they are trained from childhood to defend the Merron faith. In ancient times they would have been the enforcers of religious law. Their duties would have included punishing dissenters and ensuring strict adherence to the religion's rules. In The Crowded Shadows, na Fadai that accompany Ulfnaor are there as much to ensure he fulfils his duty as they are there to protect him.

As An Domhan's most honoured representatives amongst the living, the Caorigh are the highest authority in Merron religious matters. Their word is final when it comes to religious law. However, most Caorigh are happy to leave everything to their Aoire (Shepherd) and it is the Aoiri (pl.) who truly wield all the power and carry all the responsibility for religious and political matters amongst the Merron people. They are the Merron's royalty, their politicians and their decision makers.

The future of the Merron people is in their hands.

The Merron are very keen on openness and overt shows of honesty and trust. They openly wear the symbols of their tribal affiliations on their arms and in painted symbols on their horses and homes. They take offence at the slightest implication that they may be untrustworthy or criminally inclined and make a show of offering the same trust to visiting members of other tribes or clans.

Names are extremely important since a Merron name tells that person's family lineage, their profession, their hereditary titles and sometimes (as with the name Garron) the place where that person was born. The exchange of names is a sign of trust and acceptance. You must be invited to introduce yourself to a Merron-especially a Merron nobleperson. Just to walk up and offer your name is a huge social faux pas that would be accepted with resignation from a coimhthioch but severely frowned upon from another Merron.

The wearing of long hair is a symbol of tribal affiliation. Up until a certain age (nine or ten) children of both sexes wear their hair cropped close to their head, only being allowed to grow it long once they have been accepted as adult members of their tribe. Around this time they will also receive their tribal bracelets. For an adult Merron to have their hair shorn, or to shear their own hair, is symbolic of them having been cast from or breaking their affiliation with their tribe. In The Crowded Shadows Solmundr and Ashkr give Christopher a set of Bear bracelets to symbolise Christopher's adoption into the Bear tribe. In reality, Christopher's adoption would first have to be approved by an Aoire. Then he would need to be publicly "named" by his adopting parent (in this case Solmundr) who would cut and burn Christopher's hair as a symbolic casting aside of Christopher's allegiance to the Snake Merron and his starting anew as a child of the Bear. Due to the circumstances of The Crowded Shadows, Christopher's adoption would certainly have been accepted by the Merron travel party, but as soon as is possible (probably at the next aonach) Sol and he will need to go through the full adoption ceremony-including the shearing of Christopher's hair and Solmundr's publicly naming him as his son.

This adoption would be a bittersweet acceptance for Christopher who has witnessed his "first father", the filid Aidan Garron, struggle against his superiors in order to improve the lot of the Merron people. Aidan Garron understood that the Merron way of life was no longer sustainable, and he fought to preserve Merron tradition while trying to move his people forward as a nation. He knew that in order to survive the changes around them, the Merron needed to adapt. But in the end, the struggle to change the Merron mindset proved too difficult, and Aiden Garron chose a life apart from the tribes rather then continue the fight to save them.

Christopher understands that in everything they do and say the Merron are upholding a code which outsiders find difficult to understand, and it is this which often leaves them open to misinterpretation. For example, though they are skilled diplomats and fluent in several Northland languages, the Merron in The Crowded Shadows insist on communicating via Hadrish, a language they barely know. To them this is a point of pride and personal honour, a gesture of respect to their guests. To outsiders it can make them appear ignorant, even brutish. In this, as in many aspects of their behaviour, the Merron stand in their own way. By refusing to bend to circumstance and adapt to their surroundings they are perpetuating the misunderstandings and miscommunication which may well be the undoing of their nation. For it is this vulnerability which Marguerite Shirken hopes to exploit to her own end, and so it may be that the pride and tradition which has kept the Merron strong for centuries may be the very thing which aids in their ultimate destruction.

introducing.

If you enjoyed.

THE CROWDED SHADOWS,.

look out for THE REBEL PRINCE.

Book 3 of The Moorehawke Trilogy.

by Celine Kiernan.

When Wynter was five, her father dressed her in a little red coat, put her on the back of his horse, and took her on a picnic. Wynter remembered the drowsy movement of the horse beneath her, and leaning back into the warm support of her father as they travelled the forest paths. She remembered his strong arms encompassing her as he held the reins, the scent of woodshavings and resin from his clothes. She remembered the light coming through the foliage, and how it had moved across her hands, so small on the big leather pommel of Lorcan's saddle.

Lorcan's friend, Jonathon, had been with them, and his sons, Razi and Alberon. All of them were happy, and laughing, which was something they seemed to do quite often back then. Just two friends and their beloved children out for a jaunt on a warm autumn day, getting the best of the good weather before winter finally tightened its grip. Looking back on it, Wynter knew there must have been some kind of military presence with them, but she had no recollection of soldiers or any kind of guards. Perhaps she was so used to the presence of soldiers around her father's good friend that she no longer noticed them. She never thought of Jonathon as "The King" back then. She recalled only thinking of him as Jon, that big, golden-headed man, so quick to lose his temper but just as quick to show affection. He had been best friend to her own father, and father to her two best friends, those brothers of her heart: the dark, serious, protective Razi, and the grinningly impulsive, loving Alberon.

Razi had kept trotting on ahead, his brown face all alight at the unexpected freedom of the day. Alberon was for the first time astride his own horse, and Wynter remembered watching with amused envy as he urged the little creature on, attempting to keep pace with his older half-brother. She recalled him calling anxiously across the sun-dappled air, "Razi! Razi! Don't leave me!" and Razi's smile as he turned back to wait.

They had stopped at a ford, and the men had stripped to their underthings and run into the shallow water, whooping and splashing and laughing at the cold. Wynter had hopped from foot to foot on the edge of the water, watching as Alberon threw himself into his father's arms. Jon had flung him high into the sunshine, Albi's small face luminous with sun-glitter and joy.

A warm presence by her side, and she had looked up into Razi's smiling face.

"Come on, darling." He had offered his hand. "It's only cold for a moment." He led her carefully into the stream, her hand held tight in his, then her father had waded over and hoisted them, one under each water-chilled arm, and carried them out into the bright water to teach them how to swim.

Almost eleven years later, Wynter Moorehawke sat on the warm, smooth-pebbled beach of a similar ford and listened to the furtive rustling of the surrounding forest. Half her mind was on the unintelligible conversation of the Merron warriors who sat on the rocks to her right, the other half on the forest shadows and all the lurking possibilities they might contain.

Down by the water's edge, the now twenty-year-old Razi crouched on his haunches and frowned out across the shallow water. For a blissful moment it seemed as though he might actually relax and sit down, but Wynter knew that he was unlikely to stay still for long. Sure enough, the dark young man almost immediately ran his hands through his hair, sighed in frustration, and rose, once again, to his feet.

Do not start pacing, thought Wynter, but Razi, of course, did just that.

His lanky silhouette stalked out of sight at the corner of her eye, then stalked right back in again, just as quick, and Wynter had to turn her head so that she wouldn't be driven mad by his ceaseless prowling. Since Embla's death, a deep and angry river of impatience ran very close to Razi's surface, and it manifested itself in constant, irritating motion. Wynter felt genuine sympathy for Razi's loss, but just at that moment, the crunch, crunch, crunch of his footsteps on the pebble shore was grating on her already stretched nerves. She tightened her jaw against the urge to snap at him.

An irritated sigh drifted across from the group of warriors. "Tabiyb," rumbled Ulfnaor, "sit down before I take back of my sword to your head." Razi glowered and the black-haired Merron leader frowned. "Sit," he ordered. "You wear me out." Razi sat, and Ulfnaor nodded in approval. "They be back soon," he said. "You take this time to rest."

The big man sounded calm, but even as he spoke, his dark eyes roamed the far bank with restless anxiety. His warriors sat tensely around him, the three women sharpening their swords, the three men staring at the trees on the other side of the ford. They had set out that morning expecting to make contact with Alberon and to engage him in diplomatic talks, so men and women alike were magnificently dressed in the pale green embroidered tunics and britches of the Merron formal costume, their arms and hands and necks heavy with silver tribal jewelry. But the day had grown old with no contact from the Rebel Prince, and evening was fast approaching. Wynter was beginning to fear that they had been misled.

She met the eye of the Merron healer, Hallvor. The sinewy woman smiled reassuringly, but Wynter could see the tension in her face. Ulfnaor's two giant warhounds were snuffling about at the water's edge. They looked up as Hallvor rose to her feet. She sheathed her sword as she made her way to the shore, and the dogs wagged their tails, hoping for action. But Hallvor just laid a callused hand on each of their wiry heads and stood watching the trees on the other side. She murmured unhappily in Merron. Ulfnaor answered in soothing tones.

Wynter wished that Christopher was here, and not just because she wanted him to translate. She frowned across the water, willing him to return. Behind her, the gravel crunched as Razi began to move about once again. His long shadow fell across Wynter and he hunkered by her side, his elbows on his knees, his eyes on the far bank.

"I do not think we will be lucky here either," he said quietly.

Wynter nodded. Since early morning, the Merron had been making their way along this river, stopping at prearranged rendezvous points, waiting for Alberon's men to show up and guide them to the rebel camp. This was the fourth such designated meeting place and it, like all the others, had proved deserted. They had been waiting for well over an hour now, but still Ulfnaor was loath to move on. Apparently if this rendezvous proved a wash-out, there was only one remaining point at which they could hope to meet their guides. If that, too, proved deserted, then the Merron's diplomatic mission would be a failure. The Northern warriors would have to return to their homeland with their duty unfulfilled, and Razi, Wynter and Christopher would be no closer to finding Alberon's camp than they had been almost three weeks previously.

"Chris and Sol have been away too long," murmured Wynter.

Razi just sighed and rubbed his face. He did not bother to reply. He'd heard enough of this from her, but Wynter didn't care. She was prickly with anxiety. There were less than four hours of daylight left, and she wanted Christopher where she could see him. She wanted him by her side, not out in the woods where the Loups-Garous might be prowling and where the King's men were still actively hunting the rebels.

"Ulfnaor should never have allowed Chris and Sol out there alone," she said. "Reconnoitre be damned! Truth be told, I think he let them go just to shut the two of them up and give them something to do."

Razi huffed in agreement. Christopher was an incorrigibly reckless fellow at the best of times, and as for Solmundr-since the loss of his beloved Ashkr, the Merron warrior seemed possessed of a dangerous, unquenchable kind of restlessness. He and Christopher seemed to spark each other off, and both were champing at the bit, longing for action. They had set off into the forest with far too much enthusiasm and far too little caution for Wynter's liking. She wished they would come back. Even with Solmundr's warhound, Boro, by their side, she feared her two friends were horribly vulnerable out there.

Wynter was opening her mouth to say so, when down by the river's edge, Hallvor and the warhounds suddenly came to attention. Frowning, the healer took a step forward, her eyes on the trees. The warhounds growled, and Hallvor gestured sharply to quiet them.

Razi and Wynter rose to their feet. On the rocks, the other Merron stood up, swords in hand.

"Cad e, a Hallvor?" asked Ulfnaor.

Hallvor shushed him, her attention fixed ahead. Then she pointed into the trees.

"Coinin," she said. "Agus e ag rith."

It was Christopher, running soundless and very fast through the trees, his long black hair flying behind him, his slim arms and legs pumping. He burst into the sunlight and crossed the shallow ford in a glitter of splashing footsteps. Boro and Solmundr came racing after.

"Quick!" hissed Christopher. "Someone's coming, and they ain't no diplomatic party!"

The Merron spun for their horses, but Solmundr called them back. He ran straight up the rocks and flung himself on the weapons pile, snatching up his longbow and arrows. His companions swerved to join him and he began hissing breathless explanations as they loaded up.

Christopher's grey eyes met Wynter's as he slid to a halt at her side.

"No time to run," he said. "Make a stand! They're right behind us."

She drew her sword. "How many?"

"Have I time to load the matchlock?" asked Razi.

Christopher shook his head to both questions. "No idea how many, don't even think they know we're here. But they're heading straight for us and they're in a damned big hurry. No time for the gun, Razi. Just draw your swords, the two of you, and stay behind the archers."

Solmundr shouted, and Christopher spun just in time to catch the crossbow which the warrior had flung to him. Christopher's quiver of black bolts came sailing after, and Wynter caught it one-handed while Christopher pulled the lever to draw his bow. She handed him a bolt. He loaded the bow as he spun to face the ford and Wynter stepped to his side, her sword in hand.

Solmundr shook his sandy hair from his eyes and drew his longbow, sighting on the trees. The Merron spread out along the beach, their longbows at the ready, their warhounds standing in disciplined silence at their sides. The wood and leather of the longbows creaked as the warriors put just enough tension on the strings to keep the arrows in place, not yet expending their energies on a full-draw. The buzzing quiet of the autumn evening settled around them as they waited.

Christopher nestled the crossbow into the hollow of his shoulder. He settled his stance. "Here they come," he whispered. Wynter could hear them now, coming up fast. So different to Christopher's earlier silent approach; this was the noise of someone smashing heedlessly through the heavy forest. It was the sound of someone panicked, someone desperate. The Merron pulled their longbows to full-draw and levelled their aim.

The man who crashed through the trees didn't register them. He came staggering from the shade into the sunlight and splashed half way across the bright water without even noticing the row of imposing warriors standing on the far bank, tracking him with their arrows. His head was down, his arms wrapped around his belly, and all his energies seemed taken with simply putting one foot in front of the other.

"Hold!" cried Wynter. "You hold now!"

The man spun in response to her voice and staggered to a halt. Once his forward momentum deserted him, he seemed to lose his ability to stand and he immediately dropped to his knees and collapsed face-first into the shallow river. The water around him instantly turned red.

There was a moment of stunned silence as the company watched the man's blood swirl and spread and trail away in dark ribbons from his body. Then Razi threw his sword aside with a clatter and waded into mid-stream to roll the man onto his back.

Wynter had assumed the poor fellow to be unconscious, but as soon as Razi lifted his face from the water the man took a gasping breath and clutched Razi's coat with a bloody fist.

"Help me," he rasped. "Help me..." His half-opened eyes were on the Merron, who had switched their aim back to the trees and were dividing their attention between the newcomer and whoever might appear in pursuit of him.

Razi began to heave the fellow up and Wynter ran to help him. Christopher splashed out after her. Without dropping his guard, he circled around in front of her and Razi, his crossbow aimed at the far bank.

"Get yourselves behind the archers," he ordered roughly.

"Cavalry... cavalry..." moaned the wounded man as they dragged him to shore. "Escape... the Prince."