When Johnny was with us he generally sat at Father’s left hand, with Mother on the right. This was in recognition that he was Father’s heir and would one day be chieftain of Sevenwaters. Tonight he had ceded his place to Illann, the new son-in-law, and was sitting beside Deirdre, opposite me. It was easy to like Johnny. He was a sturdily built young man with close-cropped brown hair, steady gray eyes and a swirl of facial tattooing that was subtly suggestive of a raven’s plumage. He had always been kind to us girls, though we were slightly in awe of him. Johnny was older, of course; a year or two the senior of our eldest sister, Muirrin. He was a seasoned battle leader and greatly respected among fighting men.

The chieftains of the region did not view Johnny with quite such universal admiration. As the closest male kin—eldest son of my father’s twin sister—he was the rightful heir to Sevenwaters. But his father, Bran of Harrowfield, had once been a fearsome outlaw, and the local leaders had long memories. Aunt Liadan had been abducted by Bran’s warriors when she was about my age, so she could tend to their injured comrade. From that unlikely beginning had come Johnny, and a love that still shone as bright as the stars in the eyes of Liadan and her grim-looking husband. In fact, a prophecy had foretold that my cousin would one day be chieftain of Sevenwaters. That was common knowledge. It was plain to me that Johnny would do the job extremely well, and I knew Father shared my opinion. Of course, should my mother have a healthy son, things might change.

My gaze moved from Johnny to Deirdre, who was seated beside Mother. My twin looked lovely. There was no trace of her earlier tears. I had persuaded her to let me put her hair into a braided, upswept style, and it made her look at least three years older and quite elegant. Illann couldn’t take his eyes off her, and the glances she gave him from under half-lowered lashes showed how much she liked his admiration.

Mother was pretending to eat, but she didn’t fool me. Father kept glancing at her, no doubt seeing what I did: the shadows under her eyes, the waxen pallor of her skin, the strained smile as she tried to concentrate on something Illann was telling her. Aware that Illann’s sister, seated on my other side, was looking at me oddly, I plunged into conversation. “Your household musicians are very good,” I said. “The fellow on the whistle, especially.”