“Or she found me.”

“Stubborn and close-mouthed, though.”

“Ah, you just noticed! Not that any Aylward has ever been such before, cough our da cough.”

“And when she does talk, it’s always as if she were chanting a tale.”

“She thinks we Mackenzies gabble too much and too quick,” Edain said with a grin. “All her folk talk like that. Something to do with their Gods, d’ye see.”

Dick snorted. “Well, the father always says we talk like . . . like the stage Irish. What that means perhaps Ogma of the honey tongue knows, but I do not.”

“I’ve heard Lady Juniper say something of the sort,” Edain said, and shrugged.

Their generation was used to finding those who’d been adults before the Change odd, even the most beloved or respected. Then he went on: “How else should Mackenzies talk? We’re Gaels and that’s how we speak. I’ve no complaints about Asgerd; when she does speak, it’s usually something worth the hearing and not just clack for the sake of it. No complaints in general; let Lady Aeval who rules the marriage bed bear witness.”

Dick nodded: “She’s clever and hardworking, too, and not so bad a shot with a bow in her hands; you and she should make some fine comely bairns, which the Mother-of-All grant. But can she cook, brother?”

Edain laughed. “Over a campfire, yes, but we’ve not had our own hearth yet! Her folk do well enough; plain good cooking the most of it, not as subtle as ours, and they’ve less to work with in that grim shiversome icebox they inhabit. Their beer is sad beyond description—no hops—but they make a fine mead and good whiskey and cider and applejack. And they liven up considerable at a feast; no lack of the craic.”

Dick reached into his sporran and pulled out a scone wrapped in a broad dock leaf, breaking it and offering Edain half. He took it, biting into it with relish. It was still faintly warm, with a brown crisp crust on the bottom and a soft steaming interior thickly studded with Bing cherries and hazelnuts, the whole sweet with honey.

“Ah, and on the quest I missed the mother’s cooking something fierce,” he said through the crumbs.

“I don’t hold with foreign food myself,” Dick agreed. “Now, what’s this I hear about an Óenach Mór?”

Edain nodded. “On the fly, so to speak. There will be business to do for the Clan, and it can’t wait, so the levy will be the assembly too, so to say. And sure, they’re collecting the proxies so there’ll be a quorum with the marching host; it’s a war we’re going to, not a cèilidh. Lady Juniper’s been busy with that, Rudi having other things to put his hand to the now.”

Dick’s brows went up. “We’ve already voted for war, and that some time ago.”

“It’s that Rudi . . . the High King . . . can’t be tanist anymore.”

His younger brother sat bolt upright and sprayed crumbs; Edain pounded him helpfully on the back. “And why not, by Anwyn’s hounds?”