We did not walk far. Mac Dara took the lantern that hung outside his hall and carried it as we made our way across the circle, out between the white stones and along a crooked path between thornbushes. I glanced surreptitiously to left and right, back over my shoulder, up into the dark shadows of the trees, wondering if Fiacha would make an appearance and whether Mac Dara might find the bird in any way suspicious. There is no enemy with the power to stand against me, the Lord of the Oak had said. And Ciarán had said, There is a time for everything, and now is not the time for me to do battle with Mac Dara.

“Here.” Mac Dara halted so abruptly that I walked into him. He put out a hand to steady me and I forced myself not to shrink away.

“Where?” I said, looking around me and seeing nothing that resembled a dwelling or shelter.

The Lord of the Oak pointed ahead. The path skirted a rock wall grown over with briars. In a curve of this wall the lantern light revealed a darker space: the entry to a cave. Something moved. I started, gasping with fright. A hooded figure stepped out of the shadows; a spear gleamed in a gauntleted hand. “All’s quiet, my lord,” a man’s voice said.

“She can go in,” said Mac Dara. “Don’t disturb them before morning. Alert me if there’s any trouble.”

“Yes, my lord.” The man retreated. I could see now that another, similarly clad, stood to the far side of the entry.

“You keep your own son under armed guard?” I asked. “What are you afraid of?”

“You’re wasting time,” Mac Dara said. “If you want what you came for, you’ll need to start working on him straightaway. Go in.”

“Remember what I said. No spying.” Gods, I could not stop shaking. Cathal was in there, so close. My heart was ready to leap out of my breast.

“Do you doubt Mac Dara’s word?” He sounded as if he was smiling. A moment later he turned on his heel and was gone, taking the lantern with him.

My eyes were slow to adjust to the darkness. After a little, I discerned a faint, flickering light coming from within the cavern. Ignoring the guards, I put my hand against the wall to guide me and edged through the opening.

A candle burned on a rock shelf not far inside, and another on a small table. Their fitful light illuminated a space that resembled more closely the cell of a druid or scholar than the habitation of a prince, or indeed a place of confinement. The shelf bed was narrow and looked hard; a blanket lay at its foot, folded with perfect precision. There was no hearth and the place was cold. A stone table had a stool set before it. Cathal was sitting there, his back to me, a parchment spread out before him, a quill and ink pot on the table to his right. He was clad in black, just like his father. “Go away,” he said without turning.