...but not in recent years. Kern nods his head at the faces along the shoreline and causeway, their gazes coming from sunken eyes of roughshod men and women in threadbare winter furs. There is no hate here as they watch, only the curious looks of a defeated tribe, not by the Nialls, or Mornas, or any other clan, but by disease, hunger and death. They wonder of the new arrivals, the young healer siblings that have given themselves to Kern’s charge.

Kern knows each of them as he passes—most former warriors, now farmers and hunters, old and young. Some are childless mothers filling the niches of tribal survival. The remainder are a handful of children, mostly orphaned; belonging to no mother or father but cared for by all. There remain but twenty-two of the once proud Aracos here at the Crannog, yet they hold it without any interference from without. No clan or tribe that respects the brehon of Ballinshruane will touch them, and all are subject to the brehon’s.

However, there are yet several Nialls here too, some who have integrated with the Aracos, though Kern does not see a one of them. Perhaps they, too, have moved on, desirous to be free of the curse that they perceive.

There are ghosts here, indeed, but a curse? Nothing more than exists in the hearts of the Aracos, or to the point, the heart of Glyn, their leader. Surely he has bound the fate of the clan within that of his own grief for the loss of his daughter.

There is a tiny fire in the middle of the crannog, where three women sit mending fishing nets with a young girl, who seems to have ably learned the craft. She is a wonder, this child, and Kern will spend moments before he leaves the Crannog speaking with her, to report back to Siobhan the latest condition of this most important child.

Kern clears his throat and the women look up. There is a smile on the girl’s face at recognition, but she does not stand. The work comes first. So much like her mother, that one is.

The oldest of the group, the fishwife, speaks, “I see you’ve brought two more Nialls for us, Kern.” She nods her head in the direction of the chieftain’s hut. “I won’t disturb him just yet. He’ll know quick enough you’re here. The first visitor is here already, though. In Bec…” She cannot bring herself to speak the name. “The young druid is in the daughter’s hut.”

Kern says, “An’ who’ makes ye think I’m ‘ere not t’be callin’ on ye, Sia, me lass, an’ I picked up the stragglers on me way? Yer reason eno’ t’drop by fer a visit.”

The remainder of women giggle, but Sia is holding back her smile. “We will not be distracted from our work by your golden tongue. Who are your charges?”

“Tis here Seasaidh an’ Seanán.”