“Trouble? What sort of trouble?” queried Liam.

“They said he was losing his grip. Men deserting his command in droves, posts unmanned, councils unattended. Autumn culling wasn’t done, and the best part of the herd starved last winter. Land cleared for no good purpose. They said he just didn’t care anymore. She had her hand on him all right, and he couldn’t shake it.”

Diarmid was pacing restlessly, brows set in a scowl, hand fingering his sword hilt.

“Where is she?” he asked impatiently. “Where will we find the lady Oonagh?”

There was a brief pause.

“She’s gone,” Donal said.

“What!?” The air seemed to crackle with Diarmid’s fury and frustration. “Gone? How can she be gone?”

“Packed up and left in a hurry, seven or eight days ago it was, around dusk. As if she got a sudden fright. Took the boy, and her own men, and away off with her into the night. And good riddance, if you ask me.”

“She took our brother?” There was a note of deep concern in Conor’s question. “So Ciarán, too, is gone?”

“That was the final blow for your father,” said Donal soberly. “You’ll find him much altered.”

“Your words trouble me,” said Conor, frowning. “What has become of him, now she is gone from here?”

“Colum’s always been strong,” Donal said “But losing you cut him deep. Some of the old household stayed here, and I’ve heard how it was from them. He blamed himself for your disappearance, and maybe rightly. As time passed, the guilt began to eat him up. He would have done more, but he couldn’t break free of her. Lost his will. His efforts to find you were all thwarted. Now that you’re here at last, I can’t tell you if you’ll be greeted with joy or simply with confusion.”

“You said he tried to find us,” I found myself saying. “I was told—I was told he was offered my safe return, in exchange for gold or land. And that he refused.”

“What!?” Diarmid’s tone was outraged. Cormack swore.

“Ask him yourself,” said Donal grimly. “I’d say that was impossible. He wished for nothing more fervently than your safe return. I believe he’d have given anything to secure it. Whoever told you that tale must have been lying.”

“We’ll see,” said Liam, stony-faced.

If I were telling this tale, and it were not my own, I would give it a neat and satisfying ending. The children would come home, and their father would greet them with open arms, rejoicing. The wicked stepmother would be punished for the evil she had done, and driven forth from their home. The father and his sons would put all to rights, and everyone would live happily ever after. In such stories, there are no loose ends. There are no unraveled edges and crooked threads. Daughters do not give their hearts to the enemy. The wicked do not simply disappear, taking with them the satisfaction of vengeance. Young men do not find themselves divided between two worlds. Fathers know their children.