Upon fell ponies, Cinaedh and I travel cautiously behind our guide, Ciannait the Triple-breasted, our wide eyes taking in what little is revealed to us on the long journey across the mysterious, mist-shrouded isle of Scáthach. On occasion, we catch a glimpse of torchlight from the rest of the Brude's entourage about a half a day behind.

After what seems like three days (night and day pass by with little distinction), we leave our ponies with a hermit near the Cuillin foothills. Our bare feet are embalmed by the cold, mossy earth, while our hearts are invigorated with hopes of soon calling this hallowed place home.

Within its skull-festooned palisades, Dunscaith is dominated by an immense broch. "Within these stone walls only Scáthach and her Deirfiúrachas Sgáith reside. It is called Màrrach Mór. Its walls are treacherous, however, so be mindful. They keep trespassers out, but they cannot hold walkers of the shadow-ways within. If you are ever worthy to ascend the Winding Path of Heads and be admitted into Màrrach Mór you may become easily lost inside. Only members of the Craobh Sgáith can navigate their way successfully."

So many mysteries, and so confusing a social structure. It's no wonder Scáthach's order remains so elusive and elite; they baffle their initiates into madness! The students' lodgings, at the bottom of a fog-filled swale, are humbler than the great broch. They are a series of thatch huts, each accommodating three. Cinaedh and I are shown to the hut we will share with an ábhar from the Cerniw called Meriasek. He is the only one remaining of his former triùr, surviving one in a Feat of Ropes duel and the other while mastering the Fire-Walking Feat. It troubles me that we are pitted against one another in order to prove ourselves fit to learn the Cleas, but such is the natural order of things: The strong survive.

Meriasek emerges from the mists as Ciannait, Cinaedh, and myself arrive at our hut. The Cornishman's targe hangs over the door flap to further emphasize his superiority over his two departed companions. His legs are great tree trunks, bare and muscled from extensive training, and they bear him along the steep, rocky swale. On his bare chest is etched the emblem that matches the targe over his door.

"Welcome, friends, to Dunscaith," Meriasek greets us with a bow, a flourish of his arms, and a winning smile. He's seems friendly enough, but that makes me all the more wary of him. Charming married to Ruthless will make for interesting living conditions. I look at Cinaedh to see his reaction to Meriasek. The Bear-slayer raises an eyebrow and smiles. I give a sigh of relief. Cinaedh saved my life on that bridge. In Cinaedh's caring eyes I see that he will not be turned against me. In Cinaedh I feel I have a true comrade through this four-season ordeal.

The Bear-slayer and I salute Meriasek as we would honour a chieftain. (We've not yet earned our tattoos or targes.) Meriasek eyes me with curiosity, looking me up and down. "You're a long, lithesome thing, aren't you? Your lovely head sits high!"

"I'm as tall as my brothers," I answer him confidently, "and just as scrappy. Don't be deceived, my lord; I'm quite strong. In a tussle with me, you'll learn quickly."

Meriasek's smile grows broader and his eyebrows raise. "I look forward to it." My cheeks burn from embarassment at how quickly he took advantage of my clumsy choice of words, but I smile with clenched lips. "Forgive his bluntness, Niamh," Ciannait interjects after a chuckle. "It is extremely rare for a woman to train at Dunscaith. You see, the Sisterhood's number grows from within. Our mothers were Deirfiúrachas Sgáith, as were our grandmothers. Outsiders who come to train are almost always men."

Living in a reclusive encampment with a band of hot-blooded, fatally competitive men will be nothing new, so I answer Ciannait with a chuckle of my own. "Never you fear, Triple-breasted One. I grew up with twelve older brothers."

Ciannait's countenance suddenly turns very grave. "Yes, Gabulfota...but these men aren't your brothers." The implications suddenly sink in, though my face doesn't betray my sudden anxiety. Very subtly, I inch closer to Cinaedh until I can feel his chest barely graze my back.

Ciannait returns to Màrrach Mór, while Meriasek invites us into the hut. It is an intimate space for three. One may stand without crouching in an area of about nine square feet, at the centre of the hut, but this is compromised by the presence of a firepit with a turning spit. In one corner is a rack for hanging cloaks, tunics, breeks, and the like. Meriasek's rung is at the top and currently has only a pair of worn, tartan trews upon it. He must be wearing everything else he owns, which consists of nothing more than a simple kilt and some leather accessories. In another corner, all manner of spears and blades rest. Some iron points are stained brown with blood, while others remain untested. I have only my short sword, which hangs at my hip. On the straw-covered floor are several furs, most of which Meriasek has gathered together for his bed.

"Don't worry," the friendly Cornishman says, as though reading my mind. "I've been living alone for a while now and have adjusted accordingly, but I am glad to have a triùr once again. There is a place for your weapons, your clothes, and your weary heads. Take whatever pelts you like. Now that we approach Lugh's season, I will do without them entirely."

Cinaedh and I thank Meriasek for his hospitality and take our leave of his - our - hut. Down the swale we come to the steep river gleann that opens to the sea. There we wash ourselves of the grime and sweat of travel so that we may be presentable for Scáthach's feast. As we bathe, we share our common attitude regarding our new bunk-mate - he's one to watch carefully. We also agree to watch each other's backs and to never allow ourselves to be pitted against one another.