“I have a new verse for your song,” Cathal said as we walked on. “I had been wondering, while I waited for you in that place, how it might end. I constructed several versions, but as it has turned out, this one is the most apt:

“Where have you wandered, my dear one, my own
Where have you wandered, my handsome young man
I met a young woman with hair like a flame
She laid my heart open, she banished my shame.

“And then, of course,” he went on, “you’d need a new ending, since the handsome young man has found his way at last.”

My eyes were suddenly full of tears. “It could be something like: Together we’ll find the way home,” I said. “I thought you couldn’t sing.”

“For you, my love,” said Cathal, “I’m prepared to try almost anything.”

There were no more tricks of time. We walked into the courtyard of Sevenwaters the day after my father had broken off his important council to ride at breakneck speed to the nemetons and fetch his baby boy home; the day after my mother had received her lost child back in her arms. At some distance from the keep we’d been halted by a pair of sentries, who had identified us then let us pass. They had eyed us with curiosity—perhaps it was not widely known that Cathal was with me, or perhaps it was his appearance that gave them pause. It was as if everything about him had been sharpened by that time away. He seemed taller, thinner, his skin paler, his eyes more intense. If he had been striking before, now he looked dangerous.

The first person we saw in the courtyard was Sigurd, on guard duty. “Thor’s hammer!” the big Norseman exclaimed, rooted to the spot and staring at Cathal. “What did they do to you? You’re a shadow of yourself, man!” He strode forward and clapped Cathal on the shoulder in hearty greeting, then sobered. “You’ve heard the bad news?”

“We know about Aidan,” I said.

More men had spotted us; I noticed a heavy presence of Inis Eala warriors around the keep. That would be because of the council. The place must be full of people. I felt the tension in Cathal. Straight from the isolation of that little cell, the long battle of wits, the confrontation with his father, to this . . .

“My lady, there’s a houseful of folk here, all sitting down to breakfast about now,” Sigurd said. “You won’t be wanting to walk straight into that.” His eyes went back to Cathal, assessing.

“Could you slip inside and tell Johnny we’re here?” I asked the Norseman. “You’re right, we’d best not create a drama in front of Father’s guests. We’ll go and wait in the herb garden. And please make sure those other men keep quiet about this until my parents are told.”