I have heard nothing good of our journey to Magh Croimor. All talk of it has been with a tone of trepidation, with many saying outright that the whole business is foolhardy. In the lea, the men and women of the Rua Fili gather with the Cath Milidh Niafer. I emerge from the paddock upon Aine’s gelding, whom I have nicknamed Caolán, the Gentle One. Not an intelligent beast, the roan steed is warm-hearted and takes quickly to me and the dig of my heel. In the face of this cold morning, green buds emerge on the alder, reminding me that all is not bleak. Even as we ride off to what may be our doom, our tears will forever loll upon the blooming flowers, and the Dord Fiann will be forever sung by the wind, through the grass of the valley.

Aine stares at me as I come into view. I don’t know her very well, so it may be rash of me to take her gelding to battle. “I understand this was to be Amlaidh’s horse,” I say handing her one of my spears, as a gesture of camaraderie. “But since his abandonment of the Niafer and his act of sedition, I will make a claim to his properties. When we return to the keep, I will take up the matter with the Brehon that has been sent for. Until then, I hope that you approve of my riding Caolán to Magh Croimor.” I laugh and pat the poor beast. “Alas, he is stupid, but his heart belongs to me.”