When the ritual was concluded Cathal and I did not go straight indoors, but walked together to the place where Aidan had been laid to rest. Not alone; we would seldom be without a presence of guards now until we reached Inis Eala. Mac Dara’s appearance in the private garden of my family home had furnished a powerful warning. So we were accompanied by both Gareth and Johnny, the two of them well armed, and also by Ciarán, whose weapons were less visible but almost certainly more powerful. Where the Lord of the Oak was concerned we needed protection beyond the capacity of a pair of elite warriors, be they Inis Eala men or no.

When we reached Aidan’s grave, which lay in a clearing among birches, our three guardians stationed themselves well back while Cathal and I went to stand by the slight mound under which our friend lay. The earth was still bare, but grass was beginning to creep over it. By summer’s end Aidan’s resting place would be blanketed in green. Birds sang a fine song in the trees around us; it was more lively dance than lament. For Aidan it seemed appropriate.

I held Cathal’s hand. After the elation of the ceremony, his mood had changed entirely. The lost look was back on his face. We had intended to offer prayers; to speak words of recognition and farewell, since tomorrow morning we would be gone from Sevenwaters. But we stood silent, the two of us. In the loveliness of the spring day, with the birch trunks gleaming straight and pale in the sunlight and a gentle breeze stirring the silver-green leaves, with the birdsong and the rustle of the forest and the great silence behind it, the death of a man so young and vital set a heaviness in our hearts.

“I do not know what to say,” murmured Cathal. “I know no prayers; nor would any be enough. Yet I owe him something. He was my friend.”

“Talk to him as if he were right there beside you,” I said. “Wherever he is journeying now, Aidan will hear you, I’m sure of it.”

Cathal cleared his throat; brushed a hand across his cheek. “You used to tell me I had a loose tongue,” he said quietly. “My readiness to jest and mock often drove you to distraction. ‘If you cannot choose your words more wisely,’ you would say, ‘then for pity’s sake keep silent.’ ” His mouth twisted. “And now here I am, and although my heart is full, I have no words at all.”