“My brother made sure he was here in time,” he said wryly. “I have never seen a man ride so, as if driven by demons. Good old reliable Hugh. So calm, so capable. So utterly predictable. But you have changed him.”

There was a smell of salt in the air, and I thought I heard a gull. Padriac’s face showed the ghost of a smile, as we headed steadily westward. Steadily homeward. He was young. Of us all, he seemed least hurt. I thought he would be able to make his life again, and make it a good one. For the rest of us, I was not so sure. Liam must face what lay ahead at Sevenwaters; must try to deal with our father, and our father’s wife, and mend the shattered pieces of a once strong holding. Diarmid seemed eaten up with bitterness, and Cormack was like some explosion waiting to happen. As for Conor, deep, wise, mysterious Conor, even he had shown me today he could be blinded by his own convictions. For he had not seen Red for what he was. And Finbar, who rode now as one in a dream, scarce seeming aware of what passed right by him, Finbar would live a life far removed from what might have been. I had brought them back; but each had lost a part of himself, in the long time away.

We made good progress, and now rode up between tall trees, our horses separated by the difficult terrain. Simon and I were somewhat apart from the others.

“You’re going home,” he said. “But you still have my brother’s ring.”

I was taken aback, and could think of nothing to say.

Then he said, “Why didn’t you wait for me, Sorcha?”

I gazed at him. Then I said carefully, “I could not stay. I told you that. I did not want to leave you, but my brothers made me go. I was only a child then.”

“I remember a tale you told me,” he said. “About a magical cup, from which only the pure in heart could drink. There was a man who waited and waited until he was old, and his patience was finally rewarded. I have waited far longer. I was gone a long time, Sorcha. Beyond the span of mortal man or woman. Nine times nine years, in that place you told of in your stories. Longer than my brother could ever imagine.”

Still I stared at him, as we crested the hill and our horses walked together across a clearing and on into the woods. Their feet trod softly on the carpet of fallen leaves. I was unwilling to believe what he was telling me, and yet I knew, as a teller of tales must know, that this was the truth.

“In the story, his sweetheart waited for him,” said Simon, fixing his bright blue eyes on me with a frightening intensity. “She waited until both of them were old. Years and years. For you, it was only three. Why did you marry my brother? Why didn’t you wait for me?”