took down the last armed king.

As the king fell,

blue light dazzled from its crown, its sword,

from the blue sword in Donal’s off hand.

Donal blinked,

his off hand empty.

The crowns, the blue swords gone.

The seven kings reduced

to piles of bones.

Motionless.

Donal’s breath loud, hard,

his thigh throbbing,

coated in blood.

Neither he, nor Xau, nor the guard spoke.

The guard bound up Donal’s thigh.

Donal hoisted Connol’s body

over his shoulder,

picked his brother’s head up

by the hair,

and limped his way

out of the cavern.

WOLF THRONE

No attendants, no witnesses

as Queen Fian sat in the wolf throne,

clasping the heads of the wolves

that formed the throne’s sides.

Soon it would be her throne

in all but name:

King Donal dead,

their young son crowned,

Fian the force behind the throne.

And behind Fian, the old gods.

So close—

both Donal and Xau must be dying even now

in the caverns under the castle,

their deaths her doing

though hers not the hand

upon the sword.

Fian bowed her head,

rehearsed receiving word of Donal’s death,

how disbelief would turn to grief—

her only true grief

her sister’s death,

a sacrifice demanded by the gods.

The doors swung open.

Fian jumped from the throne

as King Donal limped in,

his brother’s head dangling from his hand,

blood dripping on the marble floor.

Fian screamed—

how could Donal be alive?!—

screamed again as King Xau

walked in with a dozen soldiers.

“Seize her,” said Donal.

Only when a soldier

set his clammy fingers round her wrist

did she think to dissemble.

She trembled, let tears brim.

“Husband, please, I love you.”

Donal set his brother’s dripping head

on the wolf throne.

“You killed my brother,” said Donal.

“You killed your sister—”

“Eirdre is dead?!”

“You fucking know it. She fucking named you.”

“But if she’s dead—”

“She woke up.”

Fian gaped at him

before she understood.

The gods had done as she asked,

had raised the cavern’s dead,

and Eirdre, dead too, had risen too.

“Put her in the dungeon,” said Donal.

“Wait! Let me see Eirdre—”

“Shut up,” said Donal,

“or I’ll cut out your tongue.”

That voice, that look,

his ruthlessness

well known to her,

but this the first time

she had been the target.

Fear dried her throat

as the soldiers blindfolded her

and dragged her away.

HARP

Bustle, noise, light,

the castle crowded with guests.

In the center of the great hall,

covered in wolf skins, laid out on a bier,

the corpse of Connol, Prince of Innis,

killed in defense of his brother, Donal.

Donal, King of Innis,

who sat on a bench,

his thigh heavily bandaged,

listening to an old man

play the harp.

An old man whose fingers, whose breath

had once conjured storm and battle,

dragon and demon,

every night in this great hall.

Faolan, his back bent with age,

played and thought of the boy

who used to sit on the floor