“I am no scholar,” said Gull, flashing a smile. “And I am no druid, as you well know. But I grew up listening to some of the oddest tales of all, tales from a hot southern land where serpents lurk under stones and the sky rains red dust. It was a land rich in spirits and omens. If we are housed here long enough, the three of us, I will tell you stories of that realm. Tonight I will give you the tale you asked for, Sibeal. Only . . . ” He hesitated. “I’m not certain how much you already know. There were dark matters in that time, the early time of Bran’s friendship with Liadan. I don’t think your father wished certain details to be spread abroad.”

I stirred the fire with the iron poker. The embers shifted and settled. “Because of Ciarán, I know most of the story,” I said. “Others here on Inis Eala must know it, too, since many of the island men were there when you rescued Bran. At least, that’s what I have heard from one source or another.”

“As to that,” Gull said, “there are many rescues in the family story. You added another, Sibeal, when you plucked Ardal from the grip of the ocean. It was, in fact, our second encounter with this mentor of yours, that time when Bran escaped from a certain place of incarceration.” Gull glanced at me, then at Ardal, his eyes glinting in the firelight. “Ardal, you haven’t seen much of this place where you’ve ended up, brought in half drowned as you were. You’ll have gathered from the talk around you that men come to this island to learn specific kinds of fighting. Sibeal’s cousin Johnny runs a school of combat, highly specialized, highly organized, based on principles of discipline and control. And excellence. It’s a place like no other. That’s why so many want to come here, indeed far more than can be admitted.