Later, they spoke more of the islands, and what strategy might be used to win them back; and they drew maps in the sandy soil, replacing man and tree with leaf and twig. I half listened; well enough to hear Conor tell them the islands would never be taken back by force. Hadn’t they heard the tale, he said, that one would come that was neither of Erin nor of Britain, yet both; one that would bear the mark of the raven, and would restore the balance? Only then could the rift between our peoples be bridged.

“That’s just a story,” said Cormack dismissively. “We might wait a hundred years or more for such a one. We might wait forever. But the sacred trees cannot wait while the blows of the axe ring out across the water.”

“The spirits cannot bide their time while the foreigner’s boot defiles the caves of truth,” added Diarmid.

“Besides,” said Liam, “I’m not sure we’re interested in bridging the rift between our peoples. Taking back what is rightfully ours, and driving them from our soil forever, is closer to what we have in mind.”

“These old stories do often turn out to be true,” observed Padriac. “Sometimes they don’t mean precisely what they seem to mean. Maybe Conor’s right. Things are changing now; look what happened to us. Our story is as strange as any old tale.”

“Mmm,” said Diarmid doubtfully. “Faith is one thing. Me, I prefer mine backed up with a sharp sword and a troop of good men.”

“A little forward planning never did any harm,” said Cormack, in agreement with his brother. “When we return, we must be ready. Father may be in no fit state to command, and our old foe may have used his weakness to make a move. We must make sure our previous gains are not squandered.”

Conor talked sparingly that night. He had been strong; to hold the awareness of both worlds was a burden, and I thought the weight of it showed. But Finbar, his isolation was something else. I went to sit by him, when it was growing close to dawn, for I had waited for him to speak to me, and he had not. I sat down next to him. It was a new moon, and I could barely make out his features in the dim light. But I did not need my eyes to see him, for all my brothers’ faces were held in my heart. Long nose, wide mouth, a dusting of freckles on pale skin, a firmly set jaw, and under the dark hair tangling on his brow, eyes like clear water of an unfathomable depth. That was Finbar.

“I’m sorry to shut you out.” He spoke after long silence, startling me. “I cannot open my mind to you, not any longer.”

Why not? Don’t you trust me anymore?

“Dear Sorcha. I would trust you with my life. Are not all our lives in your hands? But I have seen—I have seen things I would give much to erase from my mind. Terrible things. I find myself hoping beyond hope that Conor was right—that these visions are not the Sight, but some evil planted in my head by our father’s wife for her own purposes. Perhaps she thinks to drive me mad. These images are cruel indeed. It is better that I do not share them. Not with you, not with anyone.” His voice told me that, in his heart, he believed them to be true.