It would take time. That was what Conor said, as each of us took a share of the tasks that must be done, the decisions that must be made. Time for Father to regain his strength of will, to gather his shattered wits, to come again to the knowledge of where he was, of who he was. Time for Finbar to emerge from his silence, to lose that feral glint of the eye, that ghastly pallor of the skin. Meanwhile, there was work to be done, and those that had the strength and the will must get on with it. It was fortunate that my father had no cousins, or nephews, that might have challenged him for his estates before now, in his sons’ absence. But we had powerful neighbors, who would not delay long before they took advantage of Lord Colum’s weakness. I heard Liam discussing this with Donal over a quiet cup of mead one night.

“It’s a wonder Eamonn has not yet moved in for the kill,” Donal said.

“Seamus Redbeard is still our ally, for all he wed Eilis to that traitor,” said Liam. “I have Eamonn’s measure, and when the time is right I will act.” I had related to my eldest brother, long since, the tale of Eamonn’s duplicity and his alliance with Richard of Northwoods. Liam had listened gravely, curbing his anger. We had not passed onto Diarmid any knowledge of the link between these men and Lady Oonagh for, Liam said, it was a situation calling for sensitive handling and exquisite timing. In due course, he and Seamus would deal with it. Diarmid, fairly bursting for revenge, was best out of the way until this was done. “The idea of swift vengeance is tempting, I know,” Liam went on. “But I plan to employ subtler methods, for the man has information of value to us, and I will learn it before I make an end of him.”

“Seamus has a grandson now,” observed Donal. “Don’t you fear that alliance? Who’s to say the old man will not change his colors?”

Liam gave a little smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “Eamonn’s son will not be raised as an enemy of Sevenwaters,” he said.

Word of our return spread fast, as such news does. So too did the story of what Lady Oonagh had done to us, and of the task I had completed in order to free my brothers from her enchantment. As I have said, our people accepted this with no great wonderment, but in time the story grew and was embellished, and took its place among the grand and heroic tales folk told on cold winter nights after supper, over a jug of ale. There was never much in the story about the Britons and how they had helped me; save for Lord Richard and the burning. Everyone loves a good villain.