“Oh, Mistress Blackthorn, you’re here, thank goodness,” she says. “The prince and Lady Flidais want you to come to the small council chamber—I’m to take you there. Grim too.”

“Now?” says Blackthorn, not getting up. “Why?”

“There’s a lady here with a story to tell, a strange one, and the prince thinks you should hear it.”

Blackthorn looks at me; I look at her. Feels too soon for another adventure. Hardly had time to get over the last one. But we’re at court, and though Oran’s the king’s son and Flidais is his wife, they’re our friends. Anyway, you don’t say no to a prince.

Not long after, we’re in the small council chamber, so-called. There’s a table long enough for twelve, and another table with writing things, and two chests with lamps on. But there’s only four people here, apart from me and Blackthorn and Deirdre: the prince, Lady Flidais, Donagan and the visitor, who’s wiped her face and tidied herself up. Looks calmer now. Prince Oran tells us to sit down. There’s a jug of ale and a platter of honey cakes on the table. Donagan pours ale for us. Deirdre asks if she should leave, and Flidais tells her no, she should sit down with the rest of us. Donagan walks over and shuts the door. Couple of the fellows are standing guard out in the hall.

“Mistress Blackthorn, Grim,” says the prince, “this is Lady Geiléis of Bann. We believe you may have some insights into the situation she is facing. That’s why we’ve asked you to join us. Lady Geiléis, please tell your tale in full, from the beginning. Take your time. I would have waited until tomorrow, since you’ve had such a long ride to reach us. But I understand your need to have this heard straightaway.” He looks over at us. “We’ve already been told part of the story. We thought it best to call you in before Lady Geiléis went further, since we believed we would not find answers for her on our own.”

I catch Blackthorn’s eye. We’re thinking the same thing. I know it. This is going to end up with her getting asked for help. And she’ll have a problem.

Lady Geiléis’s face is still puffed up from crying. She’s got a little handkerchief crumpled in her hand. “My lands are bordered to one side by the river Bann,” she says. “They take their name from that body of water. I have grazing fields, a tract of forest, my house and outbuildings, a scattering of farms and small hamlets whose folk look to me for leadership. I inherited my property from my father, and I have never wed. Across the Bann lies Tirconnell, territory of the northern Uí Néill. My holding is in Dalriada. A bridge spans the river some miles farther north. It is too far away for my folk to use. But at a certain point, where the Bann runs along my border, there is a ford, passable at all times save in severe flood. It lies in a wooded area, the trees growing densely on either side of the river. In the middle is an island, and on that island stands a tower.”