To subvert your will to vengeance requires you to throw yourself to something with no understanding of mercy. So it will use you, take from you your very being, in the pursuit of its end. And if victory is achieved, then vengeance will toss you aside, unneeded and forgotten.

But first there needs to be something avenged.

ires heralded the end of the season of dark, welcoming the season of light. Fires lit by Con the Druid, using logs from the nine sacred trees carried by the nine chosen men of the farming village of Begagha. Fires between which the cattle had been driven to their summer pastures, and through which the people, old or young, weak or hale, had walked or been carried. Fires which provided spark to hearth and home. Brilliant fires of fortune. Brilliant fires of health. Brilliant fires of prosperity. The fires of Bealtaine.

As the flames leapt to chase away the dark, so too did the songs and dance of the merry making villagers. But as the flames sunk low, the villagers began to leave the hill top. First babes in arms and toddlers in hands of grandmothers, followed by older children shooed away by mother and father, then couples hand in hand in all directions, like the rays from the sun they would welcome in the morning.

With only embers left, few remained on the hill besides the old men and the drunkards, the first reminiscing quietly, the second snoring loudly. Only Con and his apprentice, Eoghann, paid attention to the two fires while they chanted the ancient chants.

Their duty kept them awake and aware, more deeply aware than at any other time of the year. Hence it was a feeling, as much as the first signs of the sun’s nimbus forming on the horizon, which told Con that Bealtaine Eve was ending. As had been the case for a number of years, he begrudged the loss of the night’s peace, knowing that daybreak would replace it with joyful mayhem.

Gesturing Eoghann to his side, Con said, “Eoghann, you will lead the festivities today, I'll take the coals from the sacred fires and spread them amongst the fields.”

“Master?” The apprentice asked, barely concealed excitement in his voice.

“It is a festival for the young and you are more than ready. While I, I would experience solitude a little longer.”

“Thank you, Master. I will not disappoint.”

“I know you won't, Eoghann. Now go, the people will soon begin to gather the boughs and flowers with which to decorate the village.”

“Yes, Master.”

As the young man hurried off, brimming with enthusiasm, Con took a moment before heaving himself first to knees and then to feet. Stretching, he chased away some of the age that had crept into his bones during the night. A hunk of bread and pitcher of small beer, left over from the previous night, served to break his fast, while watching the sun creep over the horizon, into the sky, to start to a new season.

The time was right, so he scooped coals from the left fire into one clay pot and coals from the right fire into another. Ensuring his actions had stirred the coals to expose red embers, which would provide the passing villagers with the sparks needed to relight the fires in their own homes, Con used a yoke to lift the pots to rest upon his shoulders. All morning, he walked amongst the fields, casting coals in all directions. It reminded him of his days when he had been the apprentice and for a time a spring came to Con’s step. But by the time he had blessed the last field, he felt the miles walked and the sleepless night. Deciding to delay return to his people, the druid took a drink from a nearby creek and lay upon it`s bank to rest.

When he awoke, Con saw the sun had traveled through much of its afternoon’s journey. Laying still for a moment longer, he listened to the growl of his belly compete with the songs of the birds. When the sounds of hunger won the contest, the druid decided his time for solitude was over. Struggling to his feet, Con again lifted the yoke, now with its empty pots, to his shoulders. Then putting one foot before the other, he began the trek home to Begagha.

Passing the pasture lands, into which Sloan and Tanguy, the grandsons of old Weylyn, had driven the village's cattle the night before, he looked for, but did not see either them or their charges. Reasoning that the cattle were at the stream, beyond the pasture’s hill, Con continued onwards.

However, the smell of smoke, made him question his reasoning. Unlike the clean smell of the Bealtaine fires, it seemed heavier, cloying, almost sickly. Con did not need to see its source to know what burned. Dropping the yoke and wishing good luck to the out-of-sight cow herders, he trotted forward, his legs protesting but willing to be so used, once more. Then his eyes confirmed what his nose had already told him.

Begagha burned.

He paused, not in cowardice, for the only invaders who remained were the ravens and crows flitting about the village, but in guilt. He knew that in shirking his duty, during the day`s rite of fortune, he had brought misfortune upon his people.

With heavy heart he plodded the final steps to the village and encountered the first victims. Kentigem the Headman and Weylyn the Wolf, both of whom had quit reaving to become farmers, yet died with sword, not plow, in hand. With them were all the other stout men of Begagha. Even Eoghann, staff in hand, had ended his days attempting to stem the raiders’ advance. Moving from hut to hut, Con found no signs of life, except for missing faces.

Unsurprised to see Cinnia, the day’s Queen, and her maidens missing, all lovely girls, he wondered why Berta, the wife of Kentigem, was taken. Last seen, heavy with child, seeking to ease birth by circling the Bealtaine fires, she had left the festivities along with the grandmothers guiding babes and toddlers. The raiders would have no reason to take her. He wondered if she had not been absent, for she would find the festivities wearisome. She may have sought peace, just as had he. If so, Con knew where to look. Often, when he searched for herbs and plants, he found her at a quiet glen not far from the village. Hope leant his footsteps speed as he headed in that direction.

“Con. Con!”

Spotting Nareene, Berta's maidservant, he hurried to her near the edge of the trees and asked, “Nareene, where is Berta?”

“Oh, Con, she needs you. We came here for the quiet, but when we heard the shouts from the village and it was all I could to stop the Lady from returning. But it was too late, the commotion caused the baby to come early.”

“And you left her alone?”

“Oh, no, her mother is with her. Keelin was waiting at the glen when we arrived.”

Usually the minstrel made Con nervous, but now he was glad she was near. “Lead me to them, Nareene.”

They were too late. When they arrived, they saw a cloaked figure laying upon the ground, which caused Con to bow his head and Nareene to let forth a keen of sorrow.

“Quiet, woman, before you bring down the crows of Brarn upon our heads. Here, take this to occupy your mind.”

Their eyes were drawn from the unmoving figure to the woman who stood above, clad in dun coloured leathers and holding the swaddled figure of a babe. Seeing this, Nareene rushed forward to take the baby from the older woman, cooing to comfort herself as much as it.

Her burden removed, Keelin gazed at Con and said, “I had not expected you to be still with us, Druid.”

“I should not be. But I shirked my duties, preferring the quiet of the fields, rather than the merriment of the village.”

“I did not accuse, Druid. In fact I am gladdened to see that you have escaped the noose of Brarn the Reaver and his crows.”

“Brarn?”

Keelin looked towards her harp bag, but did not move towards it. Still, a minstrel must tell a story as a minstrel will.

fter the first Battle of Mag Tured, Nuada, the King of Tuatha Dé Danann, was removed from his throne. Physical perfection, having been lost when the Fir Bolg champion, Sreng, had, with a mighty swing of his sword, sliced through Nuada’s shield and wrist. On his throne was placed Eochu Bres, son of á‰riu and the Fomorian, Prince Elatha.

A poor choice, for Bres identified with his father’s people, subjecting the battle diminished numbers of Dé Danann to tribute and slavery. However, his reign was short, for the leech Dian Cecht grew a silver hand for the maimed ex-king, which allowed Nuada of the Silver Hand to regain his throne. Deposed, Bres fled to the protection of the Formorians, whose thumb still rested upon their cousins and would until the coming of Lug, also of mixed birth.

Now Bres and Lug were not the only children to be born both of Fomorian and Dé Danann. Unlike them, most were not born into greatness, many were born into poverty and despair. Often the unwanted and unnamed get of foreman upon slave woman.

They were the lowest of the low, but when Lug called forth all Tuatha Dé Danann to join him in overthrowing their oppressors, few of the half-bloods did not heed the call. Arriving in Mag Aurfolaig, on Samhain, they found that the host still scorned them. But the leaders, who knew how much greater were the numbers of Fomorian over the numbers of Dé Danann, ignored that each was unblooded and ill-prepared, instead they welcomed the half-bloods. Clad only in rags for armour, Lug sent them to Goibniu the smith, Luchta the wright, and Crecht the artisan to each have made three spears to throw, one to thrust, and a shield to fend off those of others.

But upon reaching the three craftsmen, Goibniu asked, “Hast thou ever cast a spear?”

Each of the half-bloods answered, “No.”

And Luchta asked, “Hast thou ever thrust a spear?”

Again, each of half-bloods answered, “No.”

And Crecht asked, “Hast thou ever wielded a shield of protection?”

For a third time, each of half-bloods answered, “No.”

At this, all three craftsmen, in one voice, asked, “What weapons dost thou know?”

The half-bloods were chagrined, for their lives had been those of beasts of labor. Finally the eldest stepped forward, with half of his fellows, and said, “We have wielded axe to fell more trees than there are stars in the sky.”

Then the largest stepped forward, with the second half, and said, “We have wielded hammer against mountains, seizing gold and silver and copper from their greedy grasp.”

Hearing this, Goibniu went to his fires and forged the heads of great axes and monstrous hammers. During this time Luchta carved long shafts of sturdy yew. These they took to Crecht, who made the rivets and cleaved the makings of Goibniu to the makings of Luchta. And so the half-bloods were armed.

But arms did not make them ready for battle against the hauberked and helmed warriors of the Formorians. Though the half-bloods proved ferocious and fearless, not a single escaped being struck down in the first day of battle. More than half would never rise. The rest, no matter how fiercely wounded, were carried and dropped into Slane, the well into which Dian Cecht and his family sang their spells of healing, making each of the wounded whole and able to face their enemy on the next day.

So the mold was cast for each day of the Second Battle of Mag Tured ( http://web.ncf.ca/dc920/tured.html ). The numbers of the half-bloods shrunk, but those who were left grew quickly in skill. Deadly became the slash of axe and brutal became the swing of hammer.

In the end, after Lug had slain his grandfather and the Formorians were sent fleeing to the seas, only six were left. Three who wielded axe and three who bore hammer. Champions all, but with battle ended, none had a home to which they could return. The oldest, who had become their leader, sought a lord to welcome them into his hold. Again and again he was rebuffed, until he came before Morrigu, the new wife of the Dagda, who saw the anger lurking beneath the surface of her petitioner. It matched her own.

Thus she said to him. “Find me, you and yours, upon the shores to the East and I will offer you position and place.”

There they waited, until Morrigu found them, after having spread word of the mighty battle to every corner of Eire. When she did arrive, Morrigu appeared upon a black boat, with three oars to a side, and into whose prow was carved a raven’s head. Grounding the boat, she approached them in her terrible splendor, causing the six to settle upon knees before her.

At this Morrigu said, “I cannot take your oaths if I do not know your names.”

The leader answered, “We have no names. Neither our fathers nor mothers wanted us.”

Morrigu said, “I will be your mother and give you names.”

Hearing this, Morrigu’s sons said, “We accept, Mother.”
Brarn, as was his right, said for all. “What would you have of us, Mother?”

Morrigu's gaze swept across her sons, then settled upon Brarn. To him she said:

Brarn bowed his head in agreement. Gesturing towards his brothers, they took up their packs and axe or hammer, then as one they boarded Dá­oltas. Pushing away from land, they began to row, nobody except their mother, Morrigu, watching or caring where they went.

In April, last year, the May Day contest was announced and I struck upon an idea built around a Celtic saga, based around the attributes to which I see in those stories (mischief, vengeance, violence, journeys, betrayal, monsters). It quickly ballooned in size and into doubt, but it would not let go of my brain and struggled to write something else. Finally, I am in the home stretch and plan to post it over the next month.

Warning: It is more of a transformation (a slow transformation) story than a transgendered story.

To subvert your will to vengeance requires you to throw yourself to something with no understanding of mercy. So it will use you, take from you your very being, in the pursuit of its end. And if victory is achieved, then vengeance will toss you aside, unneeded and forgotten.

After there is something to be something avenged. Then there needs to be someone who seeks it and someone to be the tool of that vengeance

wri wandered far from Mullinglas, needing time on his own to think. To decide amongst his many choices what profession he would follow. Maybe the path of the warrior, taught by Sloan and Tanguy, who had escaped the massacre of Begagha. Or he could follow Con the druid or Einon the smith or Leigh the healer or Edna the potter or...

He had shown skill at many things, but none felt right. Often he wished to learn about everything, even if it meant becoming master of nothing.

Yet no matter how far he walked, the decision grew no closer. Nor did he find a faerie to provide an answer. Thus, as nightfall approached, Gwri turned for home, still undecided.

Nearing Mullinglas, Gwri spotted a figure on the road ahead, whose harp case identified her as his Grandmother Keelin. Of all his teachers, she never pressured Gwri to follow her trade and become a minstrel. Instead, she expected Gwri to kill the reaver Brarn.

The need for his death consumed her. When she had searched, Keelin found the tracks of whoever destroyed Begagha came from nowhere and disappeared to the same place. This convinced here that the reavers came from Tá­r na ná“g. Always there after, as she traveled the roads as a minstrel, she sought information that could help bring about her vengeance.

Her vengeance, but not Gwri’s. He did not feel the need to avenge his family, since to him, his family were Nareene, Con, the brothers, and Keelin. Nor did he think the idea of revenge, against some faerie lord, realistic.

So he avoided her. Cutting through the woods, heading for Con's hut.

Greeting him, Con said, "Your grandmother’s returned. There will be a gathering for her to tell all the news of land."

"Aye, I saw her approach."

"And did not greet her? Don't look so innocent. I know your feelings about what she wants from you. Can't say I blame you."

"I would be the grandson she wished. But what she wants from me..."

"...is as silly as many of the songs she sings. Still, you will be at the fire. Let’s hope the audience will bring about her best behavior."

Though Gwri shared that wish, too often had his grandmother embarrassed him to expect it to be true. So, even while Keelin spoke of deaths and births, marriages and conflicts, he worried. She even made it through the news, without delving into her favourite topic, then she sang some popular songs and told some requested stories.

When she paused, looking from face to face, seeking yet not receiving another request, Gwri knew what she would next sing. He recognized the chords she played. A song of her own making, which brought no smile to any face.

Yet all stayed to listen as she sang the Raid of Begagha, which she had meshed together with the story of Brarn the Half-blood. They waited to hear if new verses had been added, signifying additional information Keelin had learned about her enemy, during her wanderings. But the minstrel sang a song unchanged, but she continued to slowly strum at her harp, her gaze upon her grandson. Once, then twice, then again, it appeared as if she would speak. Yet each time she reconsidered, until finally, almost against her will, she put down the harp.

This signaled the end. People stood and stretched, offered their good eves and went their separate ways. Gwri wished to join them, but manners kept him while his grandmother stowed her harp in its case, to walk her home. Though with her frequent absences, he felt the house belonged to him and Nareene, with Keelin being their guest.

But Keelin did not hurry to leave the fire. Seeing his questioning look, Keelin said, "I know many think I am mad. Sometimes I think so myself. For what else but madness would drive someone to ignore all else in her pursuit for revenge against some imaginary foe?"

Even though he agreed, Gwri said, "No, Grandmother, everybody understands why the quest is so important to you."

"But not to you?"

"No. It isn't." He said, voicing an admission always hidden from her.

"Do you not care about your parents?"

"I don't know them as my parents. Their only role in my life are as names in your songs, no different than Lug or CẠChulainn. Maybe if their lives were as important as their deaths, they would matter more. Instead, it seems their fate was to die, not to be my parents."

Keelin thought to argue, but the truth of Gwri's words struck her silent. Then wide-eyed in dismay, she quietly asked, "Have I truly diminished their memories in such a way?"

"Grandmother..."

"Did I never tell you of your father's boisterous cheer nor your mother's joy, despite her pain, when she first saw you whole?"

"No."

"No? Divine Cairbre, was I truly such a greedy old woman? Miserly hording happiness, while sharing only grief? I have. Oh, Gwri, I am so very sorry. I would tell you all about your mother, my beautiful Berta, and of your father, her ferocious Kentigem."

Long into the night Keelin shared cherished memories with her grandson. And for the first time, his parents came alive in his mind. For his grandmother spoke about their lives and he learned they were worth missing. When Keelin grew quiet, they sat together in silence beneath the moon and the stars.

After a time, Gwri said, "Thank you."

"I apologize for not sharing this with you sooner. And for the mistake I almost made earlier tonight."

"Grandmother?"

"I had planned to chastise you, before all, for not seeking vengeance upon your parent's slayers. I hoped to embarrass you, to lessen you in the eyes of your friends, to pressure you into joining my quest."

"It would not have worked." Gwri said, a hint of anger underlying his calm response to the unfulfilled betrayal.

"Aye, when I looked at you, comfortably seated amongst the others, I knew that everyone now saw me as the outsider. They would have sided with you."

"Maybe."

"No, I am sure and it would have driven a wedge between me and the village. I could not chance that. You, everybody in Mullinglas, are my escape from my madness. On the road, my desire for revenge upon Brarn burns so fiercely that I fear it will boil over. But here, though it simmers, I can let my mind wander."

"Then why did you even consider it?"

"Because I have finally learned how to extract my vengeance. And I need your help."

t took five days before Gwri could leave Mullinglas along with Con, Sloan, and Tanguy, riding four of the brothers' horses. Amongst those who watched the foursome leave was Keelin, whose emotions warred between satisfaction and frustration. Satisfaction that her grandson finally took interest in her revenge, but frustration that his friends separated her from him when it finally happened.

Yet she could not ask for more. Gwri had taken her statement, about knowing how to get revenge, with less grace than he had her admitted plan to shame him. All that had been mended between them had instantly been rent anew. He refused to talk anymore that night, nor during the next day. Instead she had found herself approached by Con, who Gwri trusted above all others, asking her what she had learned. Keelin told him of a tinker, who spoke of a smith named Fintan Mac Gabhann, who sought help to kill Brarn the Reaver.

Con had listened to Keelin's tale and left, giving no impression if he believed or not. It had led to a restless evening, as she wondered what her grandson thought, for she did not doubt that the druid had gone directly from her to Gwri. Fortunately, Gwri had not forced her to endure a second sleepless night, approaching her to say that he, along with his friends, would go alone to speak to this Mac Gabhann. To judge the truth without her hopes clouding what he said.

So the four rode far to North, to Slieve Gullion, seeking Poolrua, the home of Mac Gabhann. They easily found the mountain, but it took three more days before they found a narrow path, leading towards where they had learned their quarry could be found.

On the trail they spotted a man, grey-haired yet walking robustly towards them and who, when close enough to be heard without shouting, said, "Well met strangers. What brings you to this dreary place?"

The three younger men of Mullinglas looked towards Con to answer. He said, "We seek the smith, Fintan Mac Gabhann."

"You do? And why would you seek such a reprobate?"

"We heard that he holds grievance with Brarn the Reaver, as do we."

"Do you indeed? I will take you to him."

Following, each on foot and leading his horse, they soon arrived upon a plateau with a hut and stable nestled against the side of the mountain. Stripping gear from their horses, they made the beasts comfortable and entered the hut, into which the man had already passed.

Unsurprisingly, they found him alone. Taking offered seats around the table, Con once more spoke for all. "I take it that you are Fintan Mac Gabhann?"

"Aye, though call me Fin, less of a mouthful. And who would the four of you be?"

Introducing himself and his companions, Con found himself telling Fin what had brought them North. He spoke of Begagha and their dead. He explained Keelin’s quest. And he described their decision to find him. Not until he finished speaking did Con realize how strange it seemed for him to be so open with a stranger. Trying to regain initiative, Con asked, "Keelin heard that you could help us?"

"Personally, I have had no dealings with this Brarn. Instead my knowledge comes from my, I guess you could call him my patron, who had a run in with the reaver and knows how to end Brarn's terror."

"Who is your patron?"

"The Goban Saor."

Seeing the disbelief on their faces, Fin only smiled, and said, "You find that hard to believe, do you? Would you believe that all you need to kill Brarn, Morrigu's son, is a comb, a stone, a piece of linen, a belt, two tears, and some eggs."

Snorting, Gwri said, "Doubtless, much like those items Lug demanded as eiric for his father, these are more than they first appear."

"But of course. Do you wish to hear more?"

"I don't." Tanguy said.

"Me neither." Sloan agreed. "I don't believe in this Brarn of Keelin's, now I'm to believe the Gabon Saor is involved?"

But Con, who sensed something in the smith, said, “I would hear.”

Looking mainly at Gwri, Fin recited.

Finished, he said, “As a poet, my patron makes a better brewer.”

Then Fin stood, moved to the back wall to sweep aside a hanging blanket and show an opening. Beckoning them to follow, he ducked inside. The companions found a tunnel bored into the side of the mountain, a red glow lighting the way deeper. Looking at the others in curiosity, they joined their host as he walked down the tunnel, feeling heat waft up to greet them. Then they entered a large cavern where Fin stopped near a massive anvil, which sat beside a pool of bubbling red fire. Yet the eyes of the visitors were drawn to the magnificent trees, amongst which birds fluttered, around the cavern’s perimeter.

Not recognizing their type, Con, who knew all trees in the land, moved to the nearest and touched it, jerking his hand back to say, "It's metal."

"Aye, as are the birds."

Wide eyed, Con looked closer at what he had assumed to be a wren, perched in the tree. Reaching forth a finger he felt not the soft plumage he expected, instead the metal edge of a feather scratched at his finger as the bird startled into flight.

"How?"

"My patron has taught me many wonderful things. And some not so wondrous."

Sloan first to slap at his neck, as if stung by an flea, then Con and Tanguy mimicked him. Too late, for each slid to the floor as if dead. Leaning over Tanguy, who fell nearest to him, Gwri found the warrior breathed, but seemed in the deepest of sleep. Shooting an angry glance at the smith, he asked, "What have you done?"

"Your friends sleep the long sleep of the fae now, Gwri."

"Wake them."

"Why then would you help the Goban Saor?”

Gwri did not answer. Seeing his friends drop, followed by this pronouncement, had caused him to turn and run back the way in which they had come. Grabbing his pack from the table, he had rushed outside into the dark and saddled his tired mount, before leading it to the path upon which they had arrived. He had only one goal, to seek help for his friends, but after a time he thought the trail longer than remembered. Not believing his own perception, Gwri continued onward. Even when that perception turned into undeniable reality, he kept walking. Only when his horse resisted going forward did he stop.

Frustrated he turned to look back, only to see a single light that he came from the still visible hut. Tempting his horse to follow him once more, Gwri returned towards the plateau. Having stabled the horse, Gwri entered the hut and found the smith asleep. Spotting his chance, the young man pulled out his knife. Slowly, quietly, he crept across the floor, planning to take the man by surprise and force him to waken his friends.

And though no creaks sounded from the floorboards, he still heard Fin speak. “It won’t work, Gwri. Sleep now, in the morning you will be better able to consider your options.”

Fin proved right, Gwri found sleep welcome and woke refreshed. Breaking his fast from his captor’s shelves, he looked outside for the man. Not seeing him, Gwri guessed him at his forge. With opportunity to escape, he took it, ignoring the horses. Long did he walk that day, but he never reached the end of the trail. Again he returned to the hut and slept.

Each of the next nine days Gwri attempted escape. He tried with each of the horses, then all of them. He tried to ride and he tried to climb the rocks, ignoring the trail. But each night found him upon the same mat.

On the tenth morning he began once more, then stopped. Bowing his head in defeat, he returned inside and found the smith sitting at the table. Gwri asked, “Why me? Con is wiser and either of the brothers are better suited to survive an adventure.”

“The tasks require a younger man.”

“Or one who more readily bides to your wishes?”

“That doesn’t hurt.”

“Are you the Goban Saor?”

“How could you mistake a humble smith for such as he?”

In accepting the non-answer, Gwri accepted all. “Very well, what do you need of me?”

“The answer to that is simple. As told in the poem, you need to bring me a golden comb, a fallen stone, a linen gift, a woven belt, two dragon tears, and a phoenix’s eggs.”

“And how am I to acquire these items?”

“Now that is much less simple.”

Poetry is hard, I really am not that good at it. Nor did it help that I chose to write it in a Celtic style, I found at the following site http://www.thepoetsgarret.com/celtic1.html called Rannaicheacht Ghairid (ron-a'yach cha'r-rid):

A quatrain stanza with uneven lines. The first line has three syllables, the other three have seven. The stanza rhymes a a b a, with a cross-rhyme between three and four.

With his friends placed into the sleep of the ages, by Fintan Mac Gabhann, a minion of the mischievous Goban Saor, Gwri is forced to serve them in their plot to strike back at Brarn the Reaver. Set before him was six tasks to gather six items. This is the tale of the first of those tasks.

aking the morning after accepting his fate, Gwri found Mac Gabhann bustling about the hut. Watching with distrustful eyes, he saw Fin carrying his own pack to the table.

Gwri asked, “How do you sabotage me now, smith?”

“No sabotage. Since you act for my patron, I seek to assure your success. Look here, will these not serve you better than your own.”

Rising from his blankets, Gwri moved to the table where lay a sword, spear, shield, and helm. Even before he picked each up, he sensed they were of a quality better than those Einon had made for him in Mullinglas. His hand reached towards the shimmering sword, tempted, but he forced himself to jerk it away, to instead take a hunk of bread.

“Take them, Gwri, they’re yours.”

“What will you require in payment?”

“Only what you have already agreed to do.”

Gwri finished the bread before he studied each, confirming with touch what his eyes had already seen. Worthy of a lord. Sighing in acceptance, he took the tooled leather sword belt and wrapped it around his waist. Sliding the sword into its sheath, he settled the helm upon his head, strapped the shield and pack to his back, and lifted the spear.

“Is there any reason for me to delay?”

“No, I have prepared all you need.”

“You have no more advice other than the poem?”

“The poem and the knowledge that the path will take you where you need to go.”

With a nod of his head, but no good bye, Gwri left the hut. Ignoring the stables and the horses, Gwri set foot upon the path. Almost immediately he found a turn that had not existed during his attempts at escape and knew this time he would be free of its grasp. Momentarily, he wondered if he should ignore his promise, to again seek escape, but when he remembered his slumbering friends and the powers of Fintan Mac Gabhann, or more likely his patron, he decided to keep his word. No sooner had he decided this, then the trail came to an end. However, an end unlike the beginning he remembered, instead he looked out upon a vast, unknown forest. Fin proved correct, the trail’s magic of the trail, or more likely the Goban Saor’s magic, guided Gwri’s steps to where he needed to travel.

Unfairly he cursed his grandmother, for getting him into this predicament, but he cast aside all thoughts of blame. Rather he look over the endless forest, wondering where to find a comb of gold. Until, in the distance, he spotted a mound thrusting above the trees. In this direction he marched.

A journey that proved longer than initially expected. Nightfall barely found him the outskirts of the woods and anxious about being so. The trees grew larger than any he had ever seen and the animal spoor seemed of a size to match. Nervously he decided to forego a fire, instead he climbed a tree and tied himself upon a branch against its trunk. An uncomfortable night, but when awoken by the snuffling of a beast at the tree’s base, he felt grateful for the perch.

The next day found him moving carefully, particularly after he spotted a giant bear drinking from a stream. In fact, every beast he saw, from rabbit too deer was larger than normal, making him wonder if he had crossed into Tá­r na ná“g.

Not until the fifth morning did he approach his destination, though still Gwri did not grow careless. Thus he scrambled down, beside a tree, at the sound of loud buzzing. Laying there, he looked about, trying to identify the source of the sound. He saw a bee, almost the size of his shield floated amongst the trees.

Throughout the day, he ducked for cover whenever he heard that sound. Well he did, for later on, while crouched beside another tree, the buzzing grew louder. Fearfully he stayed in place, as the sound of snapping branches and hoof prints heralded a running deer, fleeing not from bear or wolf, but a swarm of the bees. Gwri was spared the sight of its demise, for it ran with great heart, until he heard the unmistakable sound of its death shriek.

The deer served enough to feed the insects, for no longer did he hear them as he moved toward his destination. Reaching it, late in the day, he crept to the forest’s edge to look at the mound, a tunnel bored into its side from which bees fluttered in and out. Apparently it served them as their hive.

In that moment, Gwri knew his prize would be found inside, guarded by hundreds, if not thousands, of the giant bees. Indeed he would have to be bold to steal the ore from inside. Better still, he needed to be smart.

Thus he spent the rest of the afternoon, hidden away, watching. In many ways the hive seemed no different from any other. Only their size was strange and the workers returning with bloodied hunks of meat. Unsure how to proceed, Gwri retreated into the woods, found a tree for sleep and returned, in the cool morning, before they stirred from their hive. While he watched, he hatched a plan in his mind.

Only after the sun sunk and the workers returned to their hive did Gwri enter the clearing. Quietly he made for the entrance, where he listened, but heard nothing. Satisfied, he scoured woods, gathered dry dead fall, and piled it near the entrance. Long into the night he worked, the light from the nearly full moon guiding his steps, still he did light it before retreating to his previous night’s camp.

At his post the next day, Gwri felt pleased to see the bees ignore his construction. Anxious though he was, Gwri again did not light the fire on that calm night, wanting the wind to blow towards the tunnel. Therefore, he added more timber to his pyre.

Sleeping late, he spent the next day scraping moss from trees. He also killed every bee he saw, his spear’s thrust proving deadly to the insects.

As the wind grew throughout the day, he anxiously waited for the evening, while trying to hold his boldness fast. Finally he decided to light the tinder. In a short order the dry wood took the flame, smoke billowing towards the hole in the side of the mound. Slowly he added more logs until the fire’s heat made it difficult to approach it. Lastly he threw the gathered moss on the fire, turning the smoke acrid.

It was time.

Gwri wrapped a soaked cloth around his face to cover nose and mouth. Thrusting a prepared torch into the fire, he held it in his left hand, thrusting above the shield strapped to that arm. With sword drawn, he entered the tunnel.

Despite his mask, the smoke almost overwhelmed, causing the flames of his torch to flicker strangely against the ceiling and walls. In that light he noticed pick marks, proving the tunnel had once been mined, hopefully a gold mine not emptied of all its wealth. Gwri continued forward, until the flames from his fire disappeared in the distance. Penetrating deep into the earth, he spotted the first guard, fluttering erratically towards him. Without thought, Gwri took three steps and slashed it in two.

Then he saw it, blocking him from going any deeper. From side to side, floor to ceiling, stood a wall of honey comb, solid except for a hole in the middle, through which came a distant angry buzz. Frustrated that he had found no vein of gold, he almost turned back.

Dismissing the cowardly thought, Gwri thrust his sword into its sheath and unhooked the pick-axe from his pack. Hefting it, to measure its weight, he slammed it forward into the wall, which caused a large chunk to break away, falling upon the floor. Again and again he struck, into the fragile yet thick wall or at the curious bees, which came through the hole.

It proved slow going, despite how the pick damaged the barrier. Light headed from the smoke and tiring work, he lowered his arm in rest. Unsuccessfully he brushed sleeve across his face in an attempt to remove the reddish tinged honey splattered across his face. Somewhat rested, he again swing the pick-axe against the wall. Soon, he swung it as often against bees as at the wall, he worried about failing before he finished a single verse of the poem.

That thought made Gwri think about the verse and his assumption he needed to find gold ore, melt it down, and pour it into the mold, which Fin had placed inside his pack. Now he wondered. Why would he not take any ore to Poolrua? How could he turn nuggets into molten ore in the middle of a forest?

Suddenly a new thought forced itself through the fog in his brain. Dropping his shield, he dragged the pack from his back and scrounged inside until he found a cup and the mold for the golden comb, to two blocks of wood wrapped together with cord and bored through on one end into which liquid could be poured. Killing another bee, to add to the pile heaping upon the ground, Gwri grasped a chunk of honey comb and squeezed so its contents dripped into his cup. Another piece met the same fate, then three more before the cup was full, ready to pour into the mold.

While he refilled the cup, he noticed he breathed easier and his eyes teared less.. Frantically Gwri worked to fill the mold before the angry bees shook off the hold of the smoke. Nervous looks towards the hole in the combs made him slow to react when the mold overflowed. Two more combs me their doom before he used the waxen mess to seal the liquid in. He placed the mold into his pack, which he shouldered into, before he picked up his shield and torch.

Almost immediately, another bug came through the hole. He thrust the torch forward, its fibrous hairs instantly starting afire. Watching it writhe in agony, he thrust once more, this time at the wall of honey comb. Multiple strikes caused the wall to burst into flame. The smell of singed eyebrows temporarily overpowered by the sweet smell of burning honey, as Gwri ran towards the entrance. Again smoke enveloped him, this time from the attacking flames that consumed the wall. Finally he reached the outside, gasped for air, then turned to look at the opening.

Waiting.

Nothing came. Nothing except the smoke.

Gwri crept into the forest’s edge to watch. He waited until the first rays of sunlight appeared above the trees. Even when the light of the sun drove away the shadows of the trees, long after the workers normally left their tunnel, none appeared. Not then, not when the sun rose to its apex.

Satisfied, Gwri left the clearing and began to walk. First to a nearby stream, where he failed to remove the sticky mess from himself and his gear. Then on towards the mountain.

Tired, he did not get far, before climbing into a tree to sleep. Yet he awoke early. Continued his trek.

As he walked, his worry about the predators was pushed aside by the worry he had made a mistake. Should he have returned to the caves, to seek once more for gold, instead of walking away with a mold full of honey? Should he have searched for nuggets from the forest’s streams, instead of bracing the bees? But when he reached Slieve Gullion and spotted the trail, he began to hope his idea proved correct.

Relieved that home, or at least a home, was near, his pace quickened. It lead him toward the plateau upon which Mac Gabhann’s hut stood. Inside, Gwri passed through the blanketed opening into a tunnel, which now seemed more welcoming after that in the mound.

The sound of the hammer upon anvil, drew him to Fin, in the cavern where slept his friends. Each laid upon newly cut reeds and covered in his own blanket.

“So I take it you found it?” Fin asked, turning from his task.

Not answering, Gwri dropped his sticky pack and reached inside for the mold. This he placed upon Fin’s anvil. Peering first at it, then at Gwri, Fin grinned. “Well done, lad, well done.”

While the smith examined the treasure, Gwri sought the metal trough against the wall and ducked his head beneath the warm water. Repeated dunks softened the honey caked spikes into which his hair had been shaped, allowing his scalp to shed the itch it had endured. Looking towards the smith, he saw the man throw the wooden mold into the bubbling pool. As it burst into flame, Gwri surged upright, his hair shedding a spray of water, and shouted in anger.

Fin ignored him. Instead he used long handled tongs to take something from the pool and drop it into a bucket of water. Waiting for the burst of steam to diminish, he reached inside.

Gwri saw Fin hold up a red tinged, honey coloured comb. The glow from the pool flickering through its transparent form.

“Is it what you needed?” Gwri asked.

“Close enough.”

“What’s it for?”

“Ehhh? I guess it’s to comb hair.”

“What! That’s all? After all I’ve been through?” Gwri said, outraged by the unfairness.

Somewhat abashed, Fin said, “It does seem underwhelming.”

“Bah, you may as well give it to me. Maybe it will help me get this honey out of my hair.”

Catching the thrown comb, he stared at it angrily, seeing little difference between it and any other comb, before drawing it through matted hair. Yet instead of catching, yanking at snags, it glided through unhindered. Grateful he finally felt clean, Gwri continued his long strokes.

“Oh, that’s what it does.” Fin said.

Gwri did not answer. Instead he looked, wide eyed, at the hunk of hair through which he had run the comb, so much thicker and longer than ever before.

With his friends placed into the sleep of the ages, by Fintan Mac Gabhann, a minion of the mischievous Goban Saor, Gwri is forced to serve them in their plot to strike back at Brarn the Reaver. Set before him was six tasks to gather six items. This is the tale of the second of those tasks.

rowning into a piece of polished metal, Gwri studied the curse of the comb. Though his mother, in their brief time together, had named him for the shock of yellow hair on his head, time had turned it into a dirty brown. No longer, now it hung to his waist and a shone a fiery gold.

Fin tried to ease his mind with stories of Lug’s golden hair, but Gwri would not be appeased, thinking Niamh a worthier comparison. Thus, he had taken a knife and lopped it off. However, later that eve, while relaxing after a meal, he found himself absentmindedly running the comb through his hair, restoring the golden mane. No matter how often he cut it, at some point he would find comb in hand, undoing the knife’s slice. Finally he had given up, letting it hang down his back, tied in place with a leather thong.

Meanwhile Gwri prepared for the next verse. Cleaning and repairing gear, he tried to extract clues from Fin.

“My guesses are probably the same as yours, Gwri. The fallen stone is probably a sky stone. But where to find it? Well I suspect you need to follow the path.”

Gwri’s guesses matched Fin’s. Thus one morning he walked along the path, following it as it soon curved towards the North. This journey lasted much longer than that to the forest and the slight incline caused his legs to ache as he climbed into the cold. Prepared by the verse, he added another tunic and then his coat. In time he found himself in a snow covered expanse, the path drawing a straight, black line to the North. Onwards he walked, his pack growing lighter as he emptied it of the clothes needed to stay warm. Rarely stopping, for that made him feel the cold even worse, he worried about the night. He saw no shelter on the horizon nor anything with which to start a fire.

So he walked, dreading the arrival of a dark that never came. On and on, until he did not want to continue. Yet he forced himself to take another step and then another. Wrapped in his woolen blanket, head bowed to shelter his face from the wind, he grew weak. Fearfully Gwri looked upwards, seeking anything in the barren lands. Weary steps stumbled at what he spotted.

Ahead, stood a stone fence, circling a pasture in which cattle grazed. Almost he thought he dreamt, until his steps brought him against a gate where the path intersected the wall.

Reaching for the latch, Gwri hesitated. Who would he find in this seeming paradise, surrounded by nothing? Assuredly someone with powers beyond the norm. And how would they take his arrival? He decided it did not matter, since he could not turn back. He had come too far and when he looked to his rear, the path no longer existed. He needed to stop, to rest. Therefore, he opened the gate and stepped onto grass. From the winter cold into summer warmth.

As the cattle curiously lowed their greetings, Gwri moved towards a small hut, seeing smoke arise from a hole in the thatched roof. Nearing it, he spotted a dock and a boat, both seemingly frozen into ice. He realized he had reached the Sea, though one not of water.

Looking out over the frozen sea, Gwri momentarily forgot the hut. Thus he spun in surprise when a voice said, “Greetings stranger, what brings you to my farm?”

Unsure who to expect, Gwri saw a farm wife, probably of an age with Nareene. Confused, he answered, “My name is Gwri, Goodwife. I ask shelter for the night.”

“But why are you here?”

“I seek a sky stone.”

She snorted and said, “Which one of them set your foot on that trail?”

Something in that disdainful snort told Gwri he faced no normal woman, as if he had not already suspected. “The Goban Saor, Ma'am.”

“Of course. I should have known, particularly after finding his clever toy beside my dock. Well come inside and we’ll talk. And call me Ann.”

First inclination led him to doubt she could be who he guessed. But when he thought about this fertile farm in the middle of winter, cattle in its pasture, and suspected she truly was Anu. With this understanding, Gwri meekly followed her and sat where directed. While she prepared a meal, he told his story.

“You’ve been ill prepared for such a journey, young Gwri. Yet the rescue of your friends is a worthy goal, as is the end of Brarn. I would offer help, if you would accept?”

“Willingly, Ann. I have no idea where I am going, how to get there, or what to do if I arrive. The Goban Saor picked poorly in choosing me as his tool.”

“As always, he assuredly has his reasons, convoluted though they probably would be to understand. So be assured that he believes you have a chance to succeed, another reason why it is worth my time to assist. First you must prepare for the cold, which makes the winter around my home seem as summer. Eat.”

That proved to be a common command during the following days, as Ann prepared him for the journey. Days separated by sleep and work rather than light and dark. And whenever he returned from his tasks, she would have waiting a meal of potatoes, onions, and beef. So often and so much did she feed him, that his girth grew until it seemed his footsteps plodded with a thump similar to that of the cattle.

Each day, Ann sent Gwri out to work on one of two main tasks. Mainly he gathered rations. Bags of vegetables from Ann’s gardens or sides of beef, harvested from the unshrinking herd of cattle. Or chunks of ice, cut from the frozen sea, to melt for drink. All of which he stored in the hold of the Goban Saor’s boat, Sgá th. As Ann had said, the boat was a clever creation, sitting upon skis so as not to be frozen into the ice and equipped with an ever burning stove, within its comfortable cabin, to make the months worth of rations he gathered edible or drinkable.

On the boat he also found iron traps, which made his second task possible. Hunting the giant snow bears that prowled the ice. From their carcasses, he obtained thick fur pelts, which he sewed together so fur faced out from either side. These two sided pelts he sewed into pants, shirt, long coat, gloves, hat, and boots. Thus clothed, he barely felt the bitter cold.

Ann also helped him prepare his mind. She told him the loneliness and darkness would be his greatest enemy. That they would prey on his thoughts, attempting to break down the walls of his mind’s fortress to let in the demons. For they would not be ravening beasts, seeking to him tear apart, instead they would be wraiths trying to drive him mad, to make him forget his task, to tempt him into joining them in their endless prison of despair. In order to combat this, Ann had him learn to distract himself with the songs and lays taught by his Grandmother. Presented with a worn old harp, similar to Keelin’s even to its sound, she told Gwri to play, to sing, while she went about her chores. If he turned his head at a loud noise or responded to a comment, she chastised him. Repeated practice brought an end to these admonishments.

A final defense came not from Ann, but from the Goban Saor. Again, aboard the Sgá th, Gwri found a featureless bronze mask, polished to a mirrored sheen, which comfortably molded to his face, due to a soft leather lining. Ann speculated it would reflect a demon’s visage back upon itself, confusing it. And while she doubted the effectiveness of the mask, she agreed that any help was worth accepting.

By the time he boarded the Sgá th to begin his journey North, few would recognize Gwri. Faceless behind the mask and massive like the bears in whose furs he now clothed himself.

As the boat glided Northwards, requiring no assistance from its passenger, Gwri found himself surrounded by emptiness. The very nothingness proved oppressive when all he had to combat this oppression was his stories and songs. Only in sleep or while eating did he allow himself silence. Silence he cherished. Yet he did not cheat, for Ann had told him to sing, so sing he did.

Only once did he forget her warnings. Uncounted, endless days after setting sail, he climbed above deck to survey the horizon. What he saw struck him dumb, for the boat slid towards a wall of darkness. Not like approaching night, instead it seemed as if the brightest of day and the darkest of night had been sundered in twain at that very spot. Unsure what approached, he armed himself and returned to deck to wait. Doubting his ability to combat whatever lurked in the dark, he loudly sang battle hymns, trying to rally his nerve.

And then it was dark.

And Gwri was still alone.

How long he stood on deck, waiting, he did not know. For time in the dark held no more meaning than it had in the light. Finally he lowered his shield, spear, and voice to look about the boat. He could see nothing, but time had emblazoned his surroundings upon his mind’s eye. So with the horizon hidden, he returned to his cabin. There he sat until his body told him to sleep, accepting the dark, though comforted by the warm glow of the Sgá th’s stove.

The light to which his awakening sight slowly adjusted, until he could see. What he saw caused him to yell his fright, before immediately he launched into song, specifically the Raid of Begagha. Where his scream caused the ghostly figures to open their mouths and add their dreadful cacophony, the song calmed them while it distracted him.

Instead they just stared. Waited.

With the return of his wits, Gwri realized these were the demons for which he had prepared. Momentarily their prior wailing made him think of the feared Ban Sidhe, until he saw some appeared male. They also seemed to have a patience not associated with those harbingers of death.

All through all the time he stayed awake they hovered, never allowing a moment between songs without starting to shriek. Each bite of food, each drink to soothe his raw throat, resulted in the return of the horrific sound. Not until he felt too exhausted to care did he fall asleep, slumped in the chair that had served as battleground during that long, dark day. Only to have it start again when he awoke. Day following upon day.

Slowly Gwri found himself able to look upon the demons with tempered fear, as they did not attack. With time he could distinguish individuals, wondering who they had been in life or if they had ever lived. Many would pass through the cabin once, never to be seen again, but the four became regular visitors.

One who appeared to have been middle aged man, with tangled brown hair falling to his shoulders, seemed to be attracted to the music, often drumming silently along with his fingers. The next two, an old man and an old woman, were drawn to the Sgá th`s stove, causing Gwri to wonder if they felt its warmth. Last, was a beautiful young woman, yet she frightened him most.

The others kept their distance, but she drifted close. While he now usually murmured his songs under breath, her presence found him in full voice. Yet she ignored that, until she hovered within an arm’s length. Gwri’s voice did not tremble as his terror fermented beneath his calm nor did he flinch in fear, as she lifted an arm. Yet she did not strike, instead her hand slowly rose to touch her own face. Confused, Gwri suddenly remembered his mirrored mask. He suspected that she looked not at him, instead she looked at herself. Again and again her vanity drew her to him until he hardly noticed her hovering form.

Over time, Gwri almost thought of these four as his companions, taking comfort in their presence. So while others who floated through were horrible to look upon, victims of vicious wounds or death’s rot, he welcomed the four.

Instead a new worry took hold. His food supply, once abundant, had shrunk nearly in half. Not having begun the return trip, Gwri cut his meals in half. Now he fought a battle of willpower with his appetite, grown immense during his time with Ann. Often he gave in, until time allowed him to conquer his cravings. Still, barely a third of his supplies were left when, one day, he realized the boat had stopped.

Pulling on his coat, mittens, and hat, Gwri took his weapons and a torch with him as climbed above deck. There he found the Sgá th against the shore, a blizzard obscuring most everything beyond the light. However, one area remained free of the storm. The path from Fin’s cabin had reappeared.

Unsure how far it would be before he reached his destination, Gwri decided to scout forward a short distance. Climbing down from the boat, onto the ice, he felt unsteady, for the sway that had grown natural did not exist upon the ice. Taking hold of the boat, he waited until the ice felt solid under his feet, then carefully he walked to shore and stepped onto the path. With the storm howling to either side, Gwri moved forward, almost immediately coming to a stop.

He had expected numerous ends to this journey. A temple to some unknown deity. A mythical beast to overcome. Yet a crater, its edges blackened against the snow, holding a grey rock, had never came to mind.

It pleased him in a way that little had, since leaving Mullinglas. In this happiness, Gwri knelt to lift the stone, but found it frozen in place. So with his dagger, he dug around the edges until it moved and he could lift it free of the earth’s grip. The size of a human’s head, Gwri found it heavier than expected. Confirmation that he held his prize came when he climbed aboard the boat and the Sgá th glided away from the island, traveling in a great arc before heading back in the direction from which he had come.

Gwri’s days varied little from those during his outward journey, though no more did his ghostly visitors appear, not even the regular four. All he could do was to wait for the trip to end and worry about his shrinking supplies. That grew to be all he thought about, as even his meals left him hungry. Constantly he found himself in the hold counting, stacking, sorting, and parceling provisions out for meals. Meals he held off from eating, for as long as possible.

By the time the Sgá th slid back into the light, Gwri’s clothes had grown baggy. By the time he reached the shore, his food long gone, he appeared a shadow of his former massive self.

To his dismay, Ann’s farm no longer appeared to exist. Only the trail.

Hungrily, Gwri hitched drooping pants with a length of rope, ensured his prize was tucked away inside his pack, and began his next journey. If his journey to the sea had seemed difficult, he learned how wrong he had been. Physically weak and unused to the solid ground, he shuffled along from the very beginning. Only the hope of reaching Fin’s allowed him to keep moving.

Thus, never had Gwri seen a more welcome sight than the plateau with its stable and hut. Where once he could not wait to escape, now his shuffle became a shambling jog as approached.

Fin, sitting at his table eating a meal, looked at him, frowned, and asked, “Who be you, barging into my home like this?”

Hardly noticing the man, his gaze focussed on the food, Gwri said, “Fin, I’ve got it. What’s the matter? It’s me, Gwri.”

“Gwri?” Fin asked, in a hushed tone.

Remembering, Gwri reached to take off his mask, but could not find its straps. With a sinking feeling, he gently touched a petite nose, then full lips. A gesture strikingly similar seen so many times, just out of his reach, by the female wraith.

igh above Fin’s cabin rose a cliff face, one that Gwri had climbed too during his aborted attempts to escape. Desperate thoughts had brought him to it once more. During that prior attempt at escape, one method he had not considered.

Now, looking out over the cliff, he knew it still was not an option. Even with so little control left of his life, Gwri knew there was too much and too many people he liked, to give up the chance to not experience them again, whenever, if ever, the Goban Saor’s capricious plan came to fruition. A plan which he suspected he now understood. One totally in keeping with the mythical smith’s reputation as a trickster, who solved problems in a manner unconsidered by anyone else. He felt the plan depended on the geis placed upon Brarn by his adoptive mother Morrigu.

Of particular interest was the final line, which could hold the key to the reaver’s defeat. Could Brarn only be killed by a man during the Season of Life, when he would surely shelter himself away from all except his queen of the year? And if only she would be with Brarn when he could be defeated, how could the Goban Saor set the killer beside the reaver? It seemed like a task that could only be performed by the greatest of craftsmen, to replace the loveliest of the yearly Bealtaine’s queens with the man who would do the killing?

The Goban Saor apparently thought himself that craftsman. Unfortunately for Gwri, he appeared to be the ingot that the smith attempted to mold. First his hair, now long and gold. Then his face, shaped to mimic that of a beautiful ghost. And there still remained four more verses.

Gwri looked upon the only escape left, then turned, and began the decent to the cabin. There he found a relieved Fin, who he ignored. Instead, Gwri finished his preparations to once more leave. However, before he left, Fin spoke.

“You’ll need to want to survive the fire, Gwri. For even the finest of smith will toss aside a bar with impurities.”

As he accepted the prison of the path, Gwri thought about the warning and wondered once more if Fin actually was the Goban Saor? If so, should he place more weight upon that warning? Likely not, the words held a truth no matter from whom they came. He knew he would try as hard as possible to succeed, even if the final destination appeared so bleak. He could do no less. Not if he wanted to save Con, Sloan, and Tanguy. Not if he wanted to offer the needed comfort to his grandmother, Keelin. Not if he wanted to be true to himself.

Therefore he could not, would not, intentionally sabotage this twisted journey which he traveled. If he survived to its end, he could decided upon his next step.

With his friends placed into the sleep of the ages, by Fintan Mac Gabhann, a minion of the mischievous Goban Saor, Gwri is forced to serve them in their plot to strike back at Brarn the Reaver. Set before him was six tasks to gather six items. This is the tale of the third of those tasks.

rapped in his thoughts, Gwri let the path lead him to wherever it wished. Not until he heard the sound of birds and smelled the nearby fields of flax did he notice his surroundings. Looking about, he found himself in land similar to that in which he had grown. Fighting a surge of home sickness, particularly when he spotted a village on the horizon, Gwri guessed this journey would be short.

A village and its inhabitants, made Gwri nervous about his strange appearance. From the neck up, he appeared a young maiden, yet his body did not match, even if recent starvation had left him a shadow of himself. So he wore a robe, complete with hood, similar to Con’s.

He could only hope the villagers would allow him his privacy.

However, as he walked closer, Gwri wondered if anybody was about to question his appearance. Despite carts in the fields and scythes laying beside rows of freshly cut flax, he saw nobody.

The reason for this became apparent as he approached the village, when the sound of shouting and the clash of metal against metal came to his ears. Dropping everything but his weapons and shield, Gwri rushed forward. He struggled through a hedge, which yanked at his fluttering robe, he found himself in a village, hauntingly similar to Mullinglas. The sounds provided a direction in which to run, until he saw a solid wall, unlike the hedge that had blocked his entrance, which had an open gate before which battle raged.

Ignoring the startled shout of a villager who spotted his appearance, Gwri lifted a spear and threw it into the chest of a man with the head of a pig. His second spear followed close behind to strike another with that of a fox.

Gwri’s doubted not that these were his foe, dressed for war unlike most of the villagers. Stories told of such creatures being in the employ of the Fomorians, possibly even a twisted branch of Fomorian. Nothing good was ever said of these man-beasts, only their cruelty was remembered.

Hurling himself behind his spears, Gwri felt thrilled by the simplicity in fighting against an obvious foe. Unlike the previous two adventures, this was something for which he had prepared, trained to fight by the Grandsons of Weylan. And though his actual fighting experience consisted only of fisticuffs, Gwri’s rage at his situation and the surprise of his attack allowed his skills to blossom. Unhesitatingly he cut down pig-face, who stared unbelieving at the spear stuck in his side. With a shout he fell upon another fox-headed foe.

Barely did the fox block the blow of Gwri’s sword. A feat owing much to the reflexes that allowed him to immediately counter with a thrust of his own. Almost this poem came to an end, but the depravations of his last journey had left Gwri with a quickness unknown to his previous self. Thus he interposed his shield in time. Again and again each blade darted towards an opponent, only to meet metal of sword or hide covered wood of shield. As quick as the other, Gwri found that in losing much of his mass, the loss had not sapped him of his strength. Instead it had been tempered into wiry sinew, which allowed him to beat his opponent backwards. Yet the fight ended due to a rock, thrown by a villager, which missed all who fought, but lay on the smooth ground waiting to trip the fox.

Unconcerned with chivalry, Gwri took the opportunity presented and thrust towards the stumbling enemy. As the red wave surged from the fox’s neck, a shout of victory came unbidden to Gwri’s throat. Empowered, he turned to assist a defender, fighting a desperate defense against two more pig-men, killing the first while the embattled villager took the opportunity to finish the other.

Hardly noticing the woman he saved, Gwri turned to see another defender collapse before a brute with the head of a bear. Unhesitatingly he leapt forward, the woman following behind. Almost like hounds baiting an true bear the two leapt forward and back, swords flicking out to sting and enrage the raging beast. Angered he attacked with a two-headed axe, forgetting all concept of defense. Dodging aside at the onrush, Gwri saw the bear slow before sinking to the ground, his hamstrings cut by the woman to whom he had presented his back. The man’s maw opened, but before his keen of pain could penetrate the raging battle, a sword’s point thrust out his chest.

Renewed by their victory over the beast, Gwri and the women fell upon another enemy. And each time they rescued another defender, she would attach herself to the pair. Their numbers began to tell, while the beast-men learned their individual skill and ferocity was not enough to ensure a victory that had seemed certain minutes before. Just as they fought, each as a single being, so too did they decide as individuals to retreat, instead of answering to any horn. Soon only the most stubborn or berserk was left to be cut down by the defenders.

About to chase after the fleeing foe, Gwri felt a hand grip his shoulder. Twirling his sword raised, he saw the dark-haired woman whom he had helped.

When sense returned to his eyes, she said, “Let them go, Sister.”

Gwri’s denial was drowned out by a loud squeal from the gate’s chains, as it closed. Watching it clang shut, he realized the cowl of his robe had fallen loose during the chaos of the battle, robbing him of the ability to mask his appearance. Once more he tried to speak the truth, only to stop when the women held a quieting finger to her lips.

“Could you watch for the return of Donella’s men, Sister, while we look to our fallen? Later, when I am finished, we can talk.”

Seeing her point towards one of the platforms at the side of the gate, piled high with stacked stones, Gwri accepted the order and climbed on top, with the aid of pegs stuck into the wall. He did so, because he sensed something in her manner that warned of unknown danger. Possibly something to do with all the defenders and villagers he had seen being women and his knowledge that she was not fooled into thinking he belonged amongst their number.

Atop the platform, he looked over the wall and gasped in surprise. Unlike the side from which he had arrived, protected by a hedge that would only keep out roving animals, this side of the village looked over a precipice, with only a single road leading upwards. This explained why the beast-men, who currently milled about outside of spear throwing range, had not attempted to flank the village. Yet he wondered how had they had reached the open gate, the battle maidens amongst the villagers had not seemed incompetent enough to have let that happen? Hopefully that would be one of many things his new friend could answer? If she were indeed his friend.

Glancing back at the women, hurrying about behind him, Gwri ignored his questions for the moment. Instead he watched the attackers, who beyond their angry glances, did not look to again assault the wall. Like the villagers they first dealt with their wounds, then in unspoken accord, they retreated to where others held horses. Mounting, they rode down the hill and out of sight. They did not return.

As the sun sank, Gwri regretted leaving behind his pack with water skin and food, but it soon appeared, carried by the woman. After she offered him his pack, she looked look over the wall and rubbed a strong arm across an exhausted, yet comely face. Not looking away from the road, she spoke.

“I am Aife, leader of the Shield Maidens of Leitergort.”

“I am Gwri.”

“And not a sister?”

“No.”

“How?”

Again Gwri told his story, delving deeper into his frustrations and worries with Aife than he had with Ann. For the bond that joins those who had fought together to achieve victory, a bond that would grow thinner with time, still held him in tightly in its grasp.

Silence stretched after his explanation. Finally Aife said, “I am glad you are not similar to those we fought, with the head of a woman instead of a beast.”

“Why would I fight them if I were?” Gwri asked.

“They are full of hate, hating each other as much as those who are whole. We of Leitergort forgot that, to our grief. Never should we have traded with them except behind walls, the temptations we offer is too much for them.”

“Because you’re all women?”

“Yes. Which doubtless confuses you, as it does most outsiders. Suffice to say, we provide refuge for those who have no where else to go or need to escape from those whose beast is hidden within, unlike those of today. Thus many will judge you harshly. To them, you are a threat.”

“Are you one of the many, Aife?”

“No, Gwri, but I have not experienced their lives. Instead I was born here and my life has mostly been fair. Even when traveling beyond the walls there has been no need for me to cover myself with the same shell.”

“Then I will continue onwards. I would not bring more grief to Leitergort than has already been dealt to it.” Gwri said, wondering if the trail continued and what dangers existed in the lands of the beast-men.

“I can’t let you do that, Gwri.”

At these word, his hand darted to the hilt of his sword. Just as quickly, Aife’s hand reached out to rest upon his, not the grip of strength with which she was capable, instead it seemed a gentle caress.

“It is because we need you. The attack today left five of my shield maidens dead and seven more wounded. We do not have enough left to guard the village and the others while we finish the harvest.”

“Will I be accepted?”

“You won’t be, truth be known. But, currently the others see your appearance was foretold.”

“What?”

“My mother, Brigitte, recently spoke of a dream, in which a golden haired shield maiden of surpassing beauty came to us in our time of need.”

“Is your mother an oracle?”

“A smith.”

“The Goban Saor.” Gwri said through clenched teeth.

“It makes sense that he would smooth the path for you.”

“He has not to this point. Besides it would not work, Aife. I am not a traveling player to disguise myself as someone else, the truth will become known and everybody will be made more angry by the lie.”

“But we need you, Gwri.”

“It will end in disaster.”

“Maybe, but it also may end in the gift needed to fulfill your third requirement. For nobody beyond our walls makes linen with the skill of those in this village.”

“Probably a burial shroud.”

“Please, Gwri.”

Eyes closed, Gwri bowed his head in thought. He asked, “How long?”

“Only until the flax is harvested, while we are the most scattered. Probably eight or ten days. After the harvest, we begin making of linen, which we do within the village and will allow others to take over guard duty.”

“That is too long.”

“Likely.”

“Do you wish it, Aife?”

“Yes.”

“You will need to help me.”

“Of course.”

“Very well.”

Aife smile chased away much of her tiredness, as she said, “Thank you. Can you continue to watch until nightfall?”

“Aye.”

As Aife climbed to the ground, Gwri reached into his pack hoping that while chasing away hunger, he could also chase away the sense of impending doom. By the time she returned, trailed by two girls to take his place, that hope proved unfulfilled. Yet he said nothing, both knew the lie would be exposed.

Maybe that is why she led him to her own hut and why they found themselves in each other’s arms. Undemanded by either, yet it seemed the inevitable result of the day in both their minds. And while neither felt a magical connection of true love, they found that despite being beginners at this dance, their earlier, deadlier dance had robbed them of the ability to be awkward with one another. Again, they moved together in unspoken accord.

Satisfied, they lay side by side, until Aife said, “Cinnia.”

“What?”

“That shall be your name.”

“Oh.”

“Would you prefer another?”

“I guess not.” Gwri said.

“Then Cinnia it shall be. Now sleep, while I check the watchers still watch.”

Gwri almost offered to go along, but realized he preferred to be alone. So did Aife. Thus when she returned, she felt happy to see her guest slept. Yet that did not stop her from laying beside him, back to back.

Morning brought their masquerade into being, aided by Brigitte, Aife’s mother, who had not spoken her entire dream. Brigitte knew that he would be a he and had prepared for his arrival. While her daughter braided his hair into twin ropes, she took armour from a sack. Firstly she gave him a bronze helm that left his face exposed. Then she helped into a bronze cuirass, shaped like Aife’s to fit female curves he did not have. Adding a kilt consisting strips of studded leather over his trousers, he looked little different than the muscular Aife, in fact his hair and features probably left him more feminine than she.

Satisfied by his appearance, Aife said, “Very good, Cinnia. But I think it would be best to have you patrol alone, westerly along the embankment. Donella’s men have attempted to climb it before.”

“Donella?”

“She considers herself the queen of the beast-men. And since they follow her commands, I guess she deserves the title.”

They hustled him from the hut, into a morning not yet broken, then to a break in the brush through which he had originally entered. Pointing Westward, Aife told him he would know when to turn back and so Gwri trekked along the edge of embankment. For a couple hours he walked, looking over the cliff’s edge for anybody brave enough to attempt the climb. When he reached a mountain face, probably the one through which the path had guided him, he turned back towards the village.

Again and again he walked those miles, first to the West and then to the East, during the next five days. Always alone, instinctively singing to himself.

Each night he returned in the dark and each morning he left before the sun defeated the horizon. He did not even speak to Aife, for the only time he was not alone, was while he slept. Nor did the two consider again the joining of the first night, instead they slept back to back as shield mates, not as life mates.

Gwri accepted this, even welcomed it, for in his worry about the women of Leitergort and the men of Donella’s, he had forgotten his true enemy, Brarn the Reaver. However, the Goban Saor had not forgotten, for that matter the smith may be a truer enemy than Brarn. For he sought to change Gwri into someone else, which Gwri should have remembered before he put on armour provided by the voice of the mythical smith. Slowly, so that at first he did not notice, his body molded itself to fit the armour, shrinking or growing as necessary.

Caught unaware by this development, but unsurprised, Gwri accepted being further unmanned without anger. Nor did he look over the embankment for any reason other than to spot intruders. That battle had already been fought and won.

By the end of the fourth day, no more changes were forthcoming and on the fifth day he found that armour meant once to disguise, now fit as if made for him. Thus he found himself making the journey too and from the mountain faster than in the past. The fifth trip would always end after dusk, but on this day, the gloom had not descended. Wondering if it he should wait to return to the hut, he spotted someone in a dress walking towards him. Before he could turn away, she waved. Caught between a desire to run and habitual politeness, he sighed relief when he recognized Aife.

She was radiant.

“Oh, Cinnia, it is a good news day, we have made peace with Queen Donella. You no longer need to walk your lonely route, instead we celebrate.”

“But...”

“Worry not, I have told everyone about how shy you are, you can lurk in the background with nobody bothering you. Besides you’ll have appropriate dress.”

Unrelieved by this offer, Gwri none-the-less followed in Aife’s wake, eyes downcast. Inside her hut, Aife presented him with a linen shift and grey woolen dress, then chivied him out of the armour and clothes Reluctant, with her watching, Gwri slowly undressed, which resulted in Aife gasping at what he revealed. Now hurried, he pulled the shift over his head and let it fall past his knees.

A quirky smile came to his face, as he recognized that the shift hid the change to his body, but what it implied to hide was now there in truth. Noticing that Aife still watched, wide-eyed in surprise, Gwri said, “The Goban Saor’s plan continues apace.

“It will help your disguise.” She said, as he pulled on the grey dress. “Sit down, I want to do something different with your hair.”

Realizing argument would be meaningless, he sat before her, trying to think about nothing. As Aife worked upon him, Brigitte arrived.

Seeking distraction, Gwri asked, “How did you achieve peace with Queen Donella?”

Brigitte answered, “We offered to pay tribute?”

“How much, Mother?” Aife asked.

“Nothing that we cannot afford, Dear. Now shall we go? You are both too pretty to hide away.”

Nervous, almost sick to the stomach, Gwri stood. Sensing this, Aife took one of his hands gently in hers and led him outside. Disaster waited, in the form of six shield maidens, each with a shield and club in hand.

Tightly clenching his hand, Aife once more asked, “What is the tribute, Mother.”

“Cinnia.”

“But, Mother.”

“Now honestly, Aife. He is not one of us, besides he killed the bulk of her men. Let him bear the brunt of her vengeance, if it will keep us safe. And is that not your duty.”

He never knew if what more the two said in their discussion, as one of the shield maidens stepped forward and swung her club. Gwri saw it coming, believed he could dodge that blow, maybe even another. But how many?

So he did not try.

With his friends placed into the sleep of the ages, by Fintan Mac Gabhann, a minion of the mischievous Goban Saor, Gwri is forced to serve them in their plot to strike back at Brarn the Reaver. Set before him was six tasks to gather six items. This is the tale of the fourth of those tasks.

ine hundred and forty granite tiles covered the floor outside the great hall in Donella’s fortress of Lisdarrow. So Gwri had been told by Cardew the beaver-headed steward the third day after his betrayal, which preceded the announcement that Gwri’s responsibilities involved keeping each dirty square clean. Such was his punishment for taking up arms against the beast-men, who saw menial labour as a humiliation beyond ken for a warrior.

Yet for Gwri, the drudgery of his task, the bruised knees, and bloodied knuckles were nothing compared to the taunts and casual cruelty of his captors. To them, normal men and women were lesser. And he, being both and neither, was lower still.

Such he had learned on the second day, while still sick and dizzy from the blow that had made him forget the first. It had been then, when dragged as much as carried by two bull-headed guards, he had first appeared before Donella. Cast down before a dais upon which two sat and one stood, the guards forced him onto his stomach. A position that caused laughter from those gathered in the hall, but not from the three before him.

Daring not to look, fearing the spear that tickled the back of his neck, Gwri needed to be content with the look he had obtained of them on his way in. Queen Donella had been easy to pick out, for she was the only female. Dressed in a green gown, which showed off her womanly form, it had been her lynx head that had drawn his eyes. Beside her sat a man, on a throne less ornate than her own, with a lion’s head and wearing the garb of a warrior. While the third, standing to the side, with the head of an owl dressed in a robe similar to the one he had worn from Fin’s.

The attention with which they studied him felt physical, almost enough to drive the fear of the spear’s point from his mind. The tension grew in his body as laughter ended, until silence made him wish for anything to be said, even a pronouncement of his doom.

“Undress.” The command, spoken in a female voice, dripped with malicious glee. “We heard a most amazing story from our contact in Leitergort. We would see if it is true.”

At the command, the touch of cold steal disappeared. Yet he could not move, the indignity of the command holding him locked in place.

“Undress. Or shall we have you undressed? We know, if it was up to us, we would not wish to have our only clothes cut away from our body.”

Hesitantly, Gwri rose to his feet. Not looking anywhere except down, he slowly pulled the grey dress over his head. Clad only in the cursed linen shift he paused, unsure if he could continue. But the slither of a sword being drawn from its sheath forced him to loosen the shift’s ties at his neck and let it slide off his shoulders to the ground. Ashamed, he closed his eyes, not wanting to think about what they saw. The torso, hips, and thighs of a women, though not a lush as those hinted at by the Queen’s green gown. However, all eyes went to his manhood, shrunken to the size of a boy’s, which dangled for all to see.

He burned in rage and mortification. Something made worse when the queen laughed, first muffled titters, then whole-heartedly. This set off her court and soon they added their bellows and snorts, not a joyful chuckle in the bunch. Their mirth battered against him like waves crashing upon a beach. On an on their caustic pleasure seared.

“So this is the slayer of Turi the Younger?” The seated man asked, when the laughter died down. Shifting his gaze to someone standing behind Gwri, he smiled and said, “How embarrassing that must be.”

In answer, Gwri heard a growl from the side, the sound of footsteps bringing forward a man with a bear’s head, grey fur implying an age not apparent in his steps. He said, “My Queen, we of the House Bear, would have this...this thing’s head as á¨raic for the death of my son.”

“And what about House Pig and House Fox, Turi the Elder? Or should it now be Turi the Only?” The lion-headed man asked, contorting his features into what Gwri took for a smirk.

“I am in no mood for you little games, Llewelyn.” Turi said with a snarl.

“Now, now, we cannot have our two most loyal supporters arguing, can we?” Donella asked. “And though we understand your anger, Turi. Llewelyn raises a fair point about Pig and Fox. Too often the lesser houses believe we take advantage of them, this would surely be such a case.”

“Who cares what they think, they would be dirt scrabblers if left on their own?”

“Still, we remain thankful that they are so willing to be at the forefront when our forces go into battle. Though, usually they expect their commanders to notice when it is time to retreat, rather than counting coup along side of them.”

Gwri heard the chastisement in the Queen’s words, so did Turi the Elder, who response took humbler on a humbler tone. “True, my son was always overeager. We warned him of that. So if you will not give me its head, what shall be done to punish this thing?”

“Thing? I like that. Now what to do with it? Kayne?”

“My Queen?” The owl head man, standing behind her, asked.

“You are full of such clever ideas, what would you recommend?”

“Well its death you can have at any time, so for now why not put it to use? Cardew constantly complains he needs more help, give it to him until you have a different need.”

“Will that suit, Turi the Elder?”

“For now, my Queen.”

“Very well. Guards, take this thing to Cardew. Oh, let it take it’s clothes, for we will not replace any that are lost.”

To the sound of renewed laughter, Gwri stooped to bundle the dress and shift into his arms. Then with each upper arm clenched in a fist of a bull-headed guard, he scurried from the hall, trying to match their long strides.

Cardew had not been happy to be given a new maid, but nothing really made him happy. In particular he had been unhappy with a further command, ordering him to make the thing clean the entrance to the great hall. By the way Cardew had carried on, who preferred to send him to the jakes or the kitchen, the steward worried more about getting work done than humiliating the prisoner. But that explained why he was the steward and not a leader amongst his people. He did not understand that if the prisoner was kept out of sight, his fellows would be unable to mock and laugh at it kneeling on the floor, as it tried to remove the horse shit that fell of the boots of your companions. However, Gwri quickly learned this truth, as the cruel haunting of the beast-men, most often by those of House Bear, Fox, or Pig, made that of the wraiths on the frozen sea seem benign in comparison. They did not even allow him his songs, a cuff the head being the usual signal that he unwittingly had begun to sing.

Yet, like a cat with a mouse, cruelty towards an unresponsive victim grows boring. Though Gwri proved fortunate to not meet the mouse’s normal fate when his captors grew bored with his presence. Instead he remained a maid, scrubbing the endlessly dirty floor, days marked only with gruel as food and a hard floor as mattress, his mind constantly seeking a plan of not just escape, but also how to obtain the woven belt. And he now knew where to find it. Every time Queen Donella walked near him, he saw it about her trim waist, its two knotted ends hanging almost to the floor. Yet no opportunity arose, for the bull-headed guards who surrounded the great hall were always watched.

One day when Gwri had almost grown used to his slave’s life, one of those guards ordered him to hurriedly take his pail and hide in an alcove off the entranceway. Barely settled, he heard the outside doors, twice as tall as he, swing open, footsteps following close behind. Nervous, yet curious, he peaked and spotted ten tall men, in shining armour, march towards the great hall. And though none had the heads of beasts, in fact each was coldly handsome, their supercilious expressions and lofty smugness made him realize these would not be his rescuers.

Their stay, in the great hall, proved short. Soon after they entered they exited, pleased looks upon their faces. No doubt providing explanation for the angry shouts that momentarily pierced the great hall’s doors, before they opened to allow an angry Llewelyn, accompanied by members of his house, to leave.

The actions of this day resulted in an oppressive level of tension within Lisdarrow. Though it took many days before Gwri learned why.

Apparently Donella, without the knowledge of her consort, Llewelyn, had sent a missive to the ruler of the neighbouring, Fomorian kingdom. In it she proposed dynastic marriage between herself and its king, Bricriu. The ten men had been the king’s response, who bluntly and rudely chastised her, before her court, for such a presumption by a mongrel. Taken aback, she had not known how to respond, nor had she reacted with more aplomb when an angry Llewelyn accused her of attempting to cast him and his house aside, before he stormed out. Now everyone played house politics, traveling only with their own kind, while House Lynx and House Lion sought to gather allies amongst the other great houses, leaving those of the lesser hoping to go unnoticed.

Once, during this time, Gwri looked up from his scrubbing to find Kayne overhead. Saying nothing, the owl-headed man gestured for the prisoner to follow and walked towards the rear of the castle.

Seeking nervously permission from a nearby guard, Gwri scrambled to his feet and hurried after, Kayne, the most mysterious figure who served Queen Donella. The lone member of House Owl, he held power all seemed to fear. Magic. Rumours spoke of him as a druid of great, awful power, which had brought to him the position of Chief Advisor to the queen, whom all knew he fully supported. In fact whispers reported he now worked on a special project for her.

Their destination proved to be a room full of bizarre items and apparatuses. Apparently, the druid’s workshop.

“Stand there and do not move.” Kayne said, pointing to a corner. When Gwri obeyed, he moved to a table and fiddled with one of his instruments, looking up only when Gwri stirred.

After a time Kayne looked towards the far wall. Following his gaze, Gwri saw a crack appear, which turned into an opening through which the queen entered, before allowing the gap to close behind her. Ignoring him, Donella demanded of the druid.

“Can you do it, Kayne?”

“I can, my Queen. But won’t your people see it as a betrayal?”

“What do I care, the plan will only become necessary if Llewelyn convinces them to betray me first.”

“Is that likely?”

“It is too early to say. Few of the great houses are willing to commit to either side and of those who have, the split between Lynx and Lion is even. However, if I were to guess, I would say Llewelyn’s constant barbs and jibes will prove his undoing.”

“Then why this plan, my Queen?”

“I have not been shy about making enemies of my own, Kayne. Therefore, it is always wise to have a bolt hole.”

“But with Bricriu, he...”

“...has made his opinion of me abundantly clear. And I plan to make him pay for that, but first I may need him to survive. Once in his clutches, I will be able to grasp him in mine.”

“How, my Queen?”

“He is a man, I am a woman. But I will need more of your improvements.” At these words, Donella strolled towards Gwri, then quick as an adder she grabbed him by his long grimy hair, yanked him forward, and pointed towards his face, said, “In particular. This!”

“Ahh, that explains your request.”

Letting go of Gwri’s hair, Donella looked at her hand in distaste before wiping it on his dress. She asked, “Are you sure it is temporary? Will you be able to turn me back?”

“This very night.”

“And will it survive? I would not lose such a pretty face.”

“Yes, my Queen.”

“Lucky Thing, to suddenly have a purpose. Very well, Kayne, show me.”

“My apologies, my Queen, but first preparations must be made.”

“What?” she snapped. “You said you were ready?”

“I am, but in order for my spell to work you and the thing need to switch garments.”

“If you knew of this, Kayne, why did you not have it cleaned and dressed in something other than rags?”

“Forgive me, my Queen, I did not think.”

“No, you did not, remember to do so in the future. Is it truly necessary?”

“It is, my Queen. See it’s a matter of like seeking...”

“Spare me the details of your accursed dabbling, Kayne. Very well. Thing, strip.”

Gwri’s mind had furiously worked throughout their discussion. At first he had feared the removal of his head, for the rumours of Kayne’s experiments had been grisly indeed. Thus he sighed relief at the realization he would be kept whole. In fact, he felt excited at the chance offered to get his hands upon the belt. Admittedly it would not lead to his escape, but...for now he removed his clothes. Easier this time, since they already knew his shame.

Nose wrinkling as she gingerly took his shift and dress, Donella walked behind a screen in order to change. Returned, wearing the dirty and torn dress, she thrust her own garb at him. Almost he smiled as stepped into the clean shift, little different than his own and probably from the same source. But when he looked for the belt, he did not see it. Not reacting, Gwri pulled on the soft, green woolen dress, gold threaded embroidery at its cuffs, hem, and neck.

Kayne asked, “And the belt, my Queen?”

“Even that?”

“Yes, even that.”

When Donella looked towards the screen, Gwri eagerness almost caused him dash forward. However, he waited for Kayne’s command before he moved and found the long rope. Woven from strands of gold wire, it proved supple as a snake as he wrapped it about his waist. Knotting end over end, he tightened it until no slack remained. Jaw gaping, he saw he filled out the gown as well as had the queen and remembered her comments about improvements. Now he understood why the Goban Saor would have him seek this belt.

“Let’s finish this.”

“Yes, my Queen. Here, drink this. It will help quell any unpleasantness you may feel.”

He handed each a goblet, in which Gwri saw red liquid that smelled like wine. Nervously he took a sip, appreciating its high quality, so rich compared to anything he had ever drank or eaten. Eagerly he emptied the goblet, savouring the glorious after taste. However, when she drank, the queen sway, a glazed look coming to her eyes.

Kayne said, “Now we’re ready.”

Gwri felt a tingling run across his face and over his scalp. Just as quickly it disappeared, but his attention was drawn to Donella. For she now had his face and long greasy hair. Wondering, he reached for his own face, but instead of the expected soft fur, he found nothing changed from when he returned with the stone.

“What? But...”

“Quiet, we wait for one more player.”

“Who?”

“I said quiet!”

This wait proved longer than for the queen, who now stood unaware of what went on around her. After a time, even Kayne glanced nervously at the door. Finally a smile appeared on his face, just before the door to his chambers banged open to show Llewelyn, a snarl upon his face. Stepping inside, he closed the door behind him and spoke.

“So the conspirators are all together. Yes, yes I have heard about this abomination you plan.”

At these words he took a long, viscous dagger, its pommel a large ruby, from his belt, showed it to Gwri, and said, “Remember when you gave this to me, Donella? When you promised me we would always be together. Yes, you do, don’t you? Well it’s time to keep your word.”

Before anybody could react he moved the five steps to Donella, who he saw as Gwri, and thrust upwards with his dagger. Dazed and unaware the queen made no attempt to dodge, nor did she feel anything as the dagger`s point smashed through her lower jaw, pierced upward into her brain, and lifted her from her feet. Casually stepping aside, so none of the gushing blood struck him, Llewelyn looked towards a stunned Gwri.

“Dismiss any thoughts of escape, Donella. You’re mine.”

Then with as much energy as with which he had arrived, Llewelyn departed. Gwri found himself looking between the corpse and the druid, unsure of anything. He did not expect Kayne to laugh.

”Oh, well done, Turi, well done. I knew I could count on you to point the dimwitted lion in the right direction.”

Gwri said, “I don’t understand.”

“There is no reason you should. But think, what will happen when someone of Donella’s house finds her dead, so obviously killed by Llewelyn? I’ll tell you. War in the halls of Lisdarrow. Both Lion and Lynx bleeding each other dry, until someone else is able to step forward.”

“Bear? Why?”

“I recently discovered that Turi and I share a hatred.”

“Me?”

“Doesn’t someone think highly of herself. No, we both hate Leitergort. Turi now understands you were a tool in the hands of those women, just as you were a tool in mine tonight.”

“Why do you hate them?”

At this question, Gwri felt that tingling once more, which replaced the disturbing sight of his own face on Donella’s corpse with one only slightly less disturbing, her own. Yet Gwri looked at Kayne. Gone was the owl’s head, replaced by that of a plain featured, middle aged man.

“In your stay at Leitergort, did you never wonder why there were no boys amongst the women? Did they tell you they had all escaped the brutality of men? Once that would have been true, but generations ago. Now only a few can make that claim, the majority being born too, but not born in the village. Those who will become mothers temporarily leave to seek mates and give birth. If the babe is a girl they return with her, if he is a boy, well then any number of things can occur. My own mother, Areia, she stayed with me, looked after me, but when I became a young man she grew sick. Worried, we traveled to Leitergort, seeking their aid. They offered her a place, but not me. My mother would have none of it, but I knew she needed help and so I insisted she stay. In the end, she agreed. It left me......bitter.”

Gwri did not comment on his bitterness, instead he asked, “And me, what will you do with me?”

“Worry not, I cannot have your corpse about, to be found and lend strength to any claim Llewelyn makes that it was you and not the queen he killed. Follow me.”

Through the opening Donella had used, Gwri followed the druid until they came to another wall. Reaching for a lever, Kayne yanked, a narrow section of the wall swinging open as a result.

“Go.” Kayne commanded.

Nervous at what waited on the other side, Gwri did not move until Kayne pushed him from behind. Outside, in the moon lit night, he looked about, until the grinding of stone upon stone wakened him to the realization that escape was truly nigh. Wondering which way to go, his eyes fell upon a recognizable sight at his feet, the Goban Saor’s trail. For once happy to be upon it, Gwri walked, the skirts of Donella’s dress rustling as he moved.

It lead him first to the bottom of the embankment above which he had once patrolled. Then up a previously unseen trail, winding back and forth, to make the climb manageable for someone in skirts. He looked Eastward, seeing the lanterns of Leitergort.

Almost he stepped off the path, thinking to warn them of what may come. But instead he continued towards the mountains.

In that moment Gwri’s understanding of his Grandmother, the Goban Saor, even Kayne increased. Vengeance did not like to be denied.

With his friends placed into the sleep of the ages, by Fintan Mac Gabhann, a minion of the mischievous Goban Saor, Gwri is forced to serve them in their plot to strike back at Brarn the Reaver. Set before him was six tasks to gather six items. This is the tale of the fifth of those tasks.

ike so many times since returning to Fin’s hut, Gwri found his thoughts drifting away from his task, towards the Land of What If. What if Kayne and Turi succeeded in taking the throne of Lisdarrow? What if Aife needed him? What if he should have warned Leitergort? What if, in capitulating to vengeance, he had proved himself unworthy to be its tool?

He knew Fin would tell him that what ifs didn’t matter, in particular any dealing Lisdarrow. As far as he was concerned, they had used Gwri both as shield and as sacrifice, casting him aside to be a toy to Donella’s whims when they no longer had need of him. And when Gwri said the betrayal belonged to Brigitte, not to Aife, Fin dismissed the protests, saying she had not stopped it from happening.

But Fin did not seem to like people very much, which probably explained why he lived as a hermit. Unlike Gwri, despite all that had happened. In fact he was shackled to this geis because of his ties to people. And it was why, when he grew bored with his task, he decided to seek out the smith in the forge.

As he stood, a grimace came to Gwri’s pretty features when he felt his skirts temporarily bind his legs. What he had brought with him from Mullinglas was no longer his, lost to his betrayers in Leitergort. Now all he owned were the prizes from his journeys, the comb he had used to return his hair to its former glory, Ann’s harp needed for his next task, and the clothing of the late queen of the beast-men. However, that dress belonged in a castle, not in the wilderness or the smith’s hut. Finally Fin agreed to Gwri’s complaints and dug a musty smelling, faded blue dress out of a chest. After some work with soap and water, Gwri found it to be an acceptable replacement, though attempts to find out to whom it once belonged were met with silence from the smith.

While tinkering with something at his work bench, Fin sensed Gwri`s arrival and asked, “How goes the song choice?”

“There are so many choices, how do I choose?”

“Sad songs, I’m guessing, if you’re to make it cry. And the Dagda knows there are enough of those.”

“I suppose, but...bah, never mind for now. What do you work upon?”

“You remember the sky stone?”

Gwri rolled his eyes at the smith’s back, then said, “Of course and the mark its retrieval left upon me. Have you made something from it?”

“Several somethings, actually. Though what purpose they will serve, I do not know.”

Curious, Gwri joined Fin at the bench. Besides implements meant for crafting sat three items, which made him turn to the smith in disbelief. “Baubles? You used the stone to make baubles?”

Fin frowned his own confusion at what lay before him, pausing before he answered, “I, I guess. But I don’t know why. Once I extracted the metal from the stone, I thought to make a dagger blade, though barely enough metal existed for that. But that is my last memory until your return. Only when I arrived this morning did I truly see what I had wrought. It makes no sense.”

The smith’s confusion, mixed with more than slight anger, finally convinced Gwri that Fin was as much a pawn as he, though apparently not one so ill used. Either that or Fin was the finest of actors, but Gwri could not believe that, for he needed some things to be real.

“Doubtless the doing of your patron.”

“Who? Oh, the Goban Saor. I tell you, I don’t like it none.”

“I know how you feel.”

“Yes, I suppose you would.” Fin said, looking at Gwri, his gaze flickering over the changeling before him.

“Let me see what he made?”

One could not fault the Goban Saor’s craftsmanship. Two of the pieces were mirrors of each other, these drew both his eyes and hands. Despite apparent delicateness, the butterfly, lacquered in jeweled reds, golds, and greens, weighed solidly in his hand and had three metal prongs, the middle being longer than the others and slightly curved until it finished in a sharp point.

“I’m guessing they’re for your hair.” Fin said.

“Yes, but why?”

“Probably because that spike looks rather dangerous, but it can be disguised as a comb in your hair.”

Gripping the butterfly like a punch dagger, Gwri felt the points of the wings fig into his palm and said, “Not particularly comfortable, but better than nothing. Well let’s see how it looks.”

No longer worried that his hair appeared feminine, Gwri had let it hang lose after he had washed and combed the greasy mess. Now he used the two ornaments to secure it so that none of it fell into his eyes.

“Pretty.” Fin said. “But the way you now look, if you replaced the butterflies with a cow patty, it would probably still look pretty.”

Deciding to ignore that comment, Gwri`s attention turned to the third item. A sheet of goldish coloured metal had been pounded into a thin strip the width of his fingers, then it had been halved and shaped into two sides of a torc. Hinged together in the back, the front of each had half a butterfly, which would form a whole when closed, a black tipped pin that hung from a tiny chain fastening it shut. Testing it, he felt amused by how the top of the pin mimicked a butterfly’s head, yet he looked at the rest of the torc with distrust.

Fin said, “I don’t think it will fit.”

“It’s not me it needs to fit, Fin. It’s the me who the Goban Saor wishes me for whom it was made.”

With these words, Gwri lifted the torc and ensuring that none of his hair became caught, clamped the two parts around his neck, until they slotted together. He then lifted the pin into place and dropped it into place.

“How does it fit?”

“I do not even notice it.” Seeing Fin’s eyes grow wide at his answer, Gwri could only say. “Oh, I hate him so much.”

However, the melodious lilt in which he now spoke ensured that all the rough edges in such a statement were smoothed away.

t took time before Gwri grew comfortable with his new voice, but just as had everything else, it too soon became natural. Sometimes he wondered at that, did his mind change along with his body? He thought not, but how would he know? Maybe he could not allow himself to care? Or maybe he had fallen off his horse, landed on his head, and was now trapped in a mind fever. In many ways, that made more sense than his climbing a mountain upon a magical path, while wearing a faded blue dress, in order to perform before a dragon.

Madness.

Though he had learned, while practicing, that his new voice leant itself to song in a manner his old could not duplicate. Joy sounded more joyful and sadness sounded more sad, Gwri had even detected a tear on Fin’s cheek during one session. Of course, if a dragon did exist, he doubted it would care about his voice.

If anything, it would be disappointed that its victim was not the man who had set sail upon the Sgá th from Ann’s farm, for who remained would barely provide a meal. A thought that amused him more than it should. Would it not be the cruelest of jokes to undergo this physical transformation, only to stare down the maw of a dragon in his final moments. It would serve the Goban Saor right. And Gwri, himself, would no longer have any worries.

Such thoughts grew less amusing as he climbed the mountain, particularly when he detected the odor of death and decay wafting out of a gaping cave entrance. For a moment he wished for weapons greater than those in his hair, but those would only anger the dragon. And that would assuredly lead to a dead Gwri.

Instead, all he had was the harp case hugged to breast while he fearfully stared into the dark hole. Try as he might, he could not force himself to go forward, so he turned. But he found no way back, just a precipitous drop. Again he was forced onwards, leaving him to wonder how many heroic songs were about those who could not turn back?

Hand outstretched to touch a wall, Gwri made his way forward, the light from behind guiding his steps. Just when it disappeared, about to cast him into darkness, he spotted a glimmer in the distance. As it turned into sunlight, so did the stench grow stronger. It caused him to stay his steps.

“Come, small one, I sense your presence.” A loud voice said, one that almost made him clap hands to ears. “It is rare that one of your kind comes to visit and I would know why.”

Sighing, Gwri took the last few steps into the light. He wanted to look towards the sun, shining through a jagged hole at the top of the cavern, but his eyes could only see the beast curled in a heap at the centre of the large open space. Huge, with a jagged back reaching almost twice as Gwri`s own head. Gloriously dangerous, white scales on its belly slowly darkening to sparkling midnight blacks and blues as they climbed its side, while its reptilian head, large fangs glistening almost as brightly as its green eyes, rested upon its front, sword length claws. It stared at him, unblinking, reminding him of a feral cat, brimming with confidence and sunning itself until it worked up the energy to once more kill.

The dragon said, “I never knew a human to burst free of its cocoon like the butterflies with which you adorn yourself.”

“You know? How?”

“I see, I smell, I feel, I understand. It is how I know that you are not one of those fools who seek to slay me, to take what is mine. But it does not tell me why you are here, where there is nothing good to be found for your kind.”

Fumbling at the knots, which tied his harp case shut, Gwri finally extracted the instrument. With it held trembling before him, almost as if it could shield him from the beast, he said, “I hope to play for you.”

“Play for me? Why would you think I would be interested?”

“I don’t know, but I am forced to do so. By the Goban Saor.”

“Ahh, I know of him. Truly the King of Foolishness, I doubt not he would set someone to such a task, to offer me as an obstacle to overcome. But do you know the songs of my kind? The songs of the highest skies, deepest oceans, and burning mountains?”

“No.” Gwri answered, quietly.

“Of course not. You will only know those of your kind. Songs of war and songs of love and songs of hate and songs of sorrow. Songs wallowing in the pettiness of humanity. And you expect me to want to listen?”

“Would you?”

“No bluster? No demands? No anger? You may as well offer your throat to me. But where is my amusement in that? You don’t even have weapons other than the ornaments in your hair, would you blunt their points against my scales?”

“No.”

“Yet you offer yourself to me, reeking of bland fear, without anger or hope to provide needed spice. How disappointing.”

With this statement the dragon closed its eyes, as if to sleep. Surprised at such dismissal, Gwri gaped in confusion. What was he to do? The only that came to mind was to begin playing, but hardly had he brought finger to string when the dragon, without opening its eyes, commanded.

“Silence. Listen.”

Initially he could hear nothing over the roar of his blood pulsing throughout his body. Almost he questioned, but then he heard something, somewhere beyond the beast. Possibly chimes, but never had the wind played with such skill. Unaware, he took a step forward and then another, each bringing the sound closer, allowing him to recognize it to be a harp that played the intricate, unrecognizable melody. Again and again the same notes repeated, capturing his mind and transporting him away from the dragon’s den.

“Will you play as perfectly?”

Startled, Gwri awoke from his trance and found himself mere steps away from the dragon. Frozen in place, he took a moment to remember what had been asked. He truthfully answered, “Sadly no.”

“Why would I accept anything less than perfection?”

“I could offer variety.” Gwri said, “Does your harpist play anything else?”

“Finally a pinch of pride. Variety does have its draw, particularly for the young, before they learn what makes them happy, content. I am not young.”

“Umm...”

“Maybe in time I will listen, but for now I would sleep. And you would be wise not to disturb me.”

Again the beast’s eyes closed, leaving Gwri to wonder if he dared to play his harp. In the end, he did not give in to temptation and quietly placed it back in its case. Instead a new emotion had taken hold, curiosity. Who was the harp player? How long had he been here? Why did he continually play the same melody over and over?

Carefully, quietly, he stepped backwards, not wanting to wake the sleeping dragon. Near where he first entered, Gwri stepped sideways into the shadows where the cavern’s roof had not fallen. Almost immediately he felt his eye drawn to a glitter, which examination proved to be the broken off tip of a sword’s blade. That proved only the first such piece of metal, for as his eyes adjusted to the gloom he saw sundered armour, twisted weapons, and tarnished bracers and brooches, all having proven useless to their owners whose broken bones they often still adorned. The fools who had sought, and ultimately failed, to slay the midnight beast.

Slowly Gwri forced his eyes away from expected doom, to continue around the outskirts of the cavern, carefully avoiding the scattered debris so he did not make a noise. Throughout it all, the music continued to play, only its increasing volume telling him he moved closer. Then he spotted the outline of a great harp, almost as tall as he, standing before a stool. Yet he did not see the matching outline of a harpist. Momentarily confused, he soon realized the harp had no harpist. But how?

The answer, unsurprisingly, was magic, but not been cast upon the ornately carved harp. Instead, the magic resided in two slender arms, their graceful fingers plucking at the strings. Arms not attached to any torso and which proved to be hollowed as if they were long gloves. Absentmindedly, he reached fingers out towards the strings, but jerked them away when the dragon spoke.

“Brave or foolhardy, you would be, to pluck a string without my leave. Which are you, pretty Butterfly?”

Recumbent, the beast had been frightening, but now that it stood upon four massive legs it was awe-inspiring. Gwri found his mouth dry as he answered, “Foolishness, Lord Dragon. That, not bravery, guides my steps.”

“Does wisdom approach? And do I care? Maybe, but probably not, for dinner is paramount in my thoughts. Quake not, Butterfly, it is not yet your time.”

With this assurance, the mighty beast leapt into the air and with a flap of its wings burst through the ceiling’s gap into the sky. Childlike wonder caused Gwri to dash forward, looking upwards to watch it quickly disappear from view. Almost immediately his thought turned to escape and he rushed out through the tunnel, even while expecting it would lead nowhere. Soon this proved to be true and he returned first to the cave, where he found himself back at the harp. Again he reached out to a string, yet while the disembodied hands plucked out their masterpiece, he found it to be unyielding to his efforts.

It was obvious what he needed to do, had been from the moment he first studied the harp, surely another of his tormentor’s creations. Gwri sat upon the stool and arranged his skirts for comfort, then reached forth, his hand and arms penetrating the into the long, leather gloves meeting no resistance until his hands felt firmly encased.

No sooner had his fingers slid home then they danced from string, no longer his to control. Disturbed, he pulled back, happy to discover that they slid free of the gloves as easily as they had entered.

Bringing a delicate hand to his face, he felt no surprise how it now looked, how it would seem as if the gloves had been made for him. But changes no longer mattered, only his quest and he doubted not that the harp played a role in his success. If only he could learn to control it. Again he reached forth and lost control of his limbs. This time he did not panic, but allowed himself to caught within the melody, learning the feel of a harp more complicated than any he had ever played. And while his hands moved to someone else’s rhythm, Gwri attempted to convince them to play something else.

Yet every time he tried to impose his will, he failed, until he doubted whether he had ever had the ability to play on his own. Seeking proof, he switched to his own harp, playing a simple tune, repeating it while attempting to embed its notes within his fingers. Again he reached into the gloves.

It worked.

His fingers were not immediately pulled into the harp’s melody and for a moment silence reigned, before he heard his song play. Yet though his desire brought it into being, his hands were once more just along for the ride, no different than if he were stuck in oarless currach as it raced down a speeding river. In ways it increased his appreciation of the magic, for the harp played with a verve and cleanliness that he knew he could not create himself. Curiously he tried to switch back to the prior song and found change as easy as thought, but only those two songs. Thus began a time of switching between the two harps, while he sought to teach the great harp the songs he had planned to play for the dragon. Yet barely had he begun before a shadow blocked the sun, the dragon swooping through the opening to thump down upon the cavern’s floor. Ripping his arms free of the glove’s embrace, Gwri experienced a moment of horrified realization that the harp played a song different from that which had filled the space before the dragon left.

“Variety?” The dragon asked, as it cocked it’s head to listen. “I do not know that I like it.”

At this announcement, the beast lowered his head, snaking it underneath the overhang to peer balefully at Gwri. He in turn froze in place, the sight of fresh blood stains on its snout driving aside the overwhelming stench of death.

“I...I can change it back.”

“Can you? How clever a Butterfly.”

Gwri’s fear made his mind go blank, the dragon’s melody seeming to disappear from his mind. Fortunately, when his fingers slid home into the gloves, they proved to have a memory greater than his own. When the dragon mumbled its satisfaction, he slumped in relief. Though no closer to having achieved his goal, at least he lived. A state which did not change during the following days and with each day he believed he grew him closer to achieving his goal. For whenever the dragon left, he took the opportunity to teach the harp new songs.

And in time the relationship between dragon and human changed. Gwri lost much of his fear at becoming a meal, but he learned the dragon saw him as little more than its pet. For when not sleeping or out hunting food, it liked to talk, mostly about dragons and men, the nobility of the first and the foolishness of the second. It displayed an ego and pettiness as massive as its form. Almost he wished to be free of its arrogance more than he had wanted to be free of the beast-men’s cruelty. Yet in his mind he did not yet feel confident in his ability with the harp and accepted the need to lay the necessary groundwork for his future performance. No longer attempting to hide what he did while the dragon was away. Instead, he did not immediately stop when the dragon returned. Longer and longer he pushed the boundary, until one day he completed an entire song. On the next day, he added words, his voice and harp smoothly melding together. Waiting for a complaint that did not come, Gwri decided to continue.

At that song’s end, he played another. A simple song, the type that would be played while everybody gathered for the evening, unimportant except for setting a mood. Like songs followed, while he watched the dragon who in turn watched him, showing no reaction. In time he performed songs with more weight, including his grandmother’s Raid of Begagha, before singing the Exile of the Sons of Uisliu, then the Death of the Children of Tuireann, and finally The Tragic Story of the Children of Lir.

But while those songs of sorrow could bring tears to the hardest hearted warrior, they had no impact on the dragon. It just watched. When Gwri stopped, exhausted by the chance he had taken and its failure, it said, “Foolishness.”

Then it lowered its head to rest upon wicked claws and slept, leaving Gwri to despair. And for a time he gave up, not even touching the harp when the dragon left on a hunt. All his careful planning, days spent choosing the saddest songs he knew, was for not. He had misjudged. For nothing he had learned, since arriving in its lair, pointed to the dragon being moved by human suffering, which it considered beneath him. Upon realizing this, Gwri knew he needed a new approach.

Now he thought not of the songs taught by his grandmother, instead he remembered those he had learned as a child from other children or since from men away from the company of their women. Songs of humour, often crude, but always cutting towards their subjects. Songs with only the simplest of tunes.

So, when next the dragon returned, Gwri felt ready to attempt another performance. This time he only sang of the uncouth or humourous. Almost immediately he noticed that the dragon’s eyes did not show the expected droop, which led to slumber. During the fifth song, the dragon snorted in laughter at the doings of a druid who had fallen in love with a willow. Then the tale of two suitors, who whiled competing for the hand of the same woman found their attempts at wooing bypassed her and caught the other, actually made it laugh. But it was a story of a king, who through grandiose plans ended up as ruler of nothing more than a midden, which pushed it over the edge.

As Gwri sang the many verses in the Luck of King Vaughn the Small, each more foolish than the last, he watched the beast convulse in unsuppressed laughter. He looked into its twinkling eyes, watching for tears of laughter to form, while hoping his voice would last until they did. Finally a drop formed on the edge of each eye and oozed its way down a long snout. As it did, a new worry grew within the singer’s mind. How could he to collect those tears?

Abandoning hope, as he saw first one then the other splash to the ground, he once more stopped.

“Ahh, Butterfly, are you done?”

“Sorry, Lord Dragon, my voice was about to break.”

“Just as well, variety kept me from my nap, I would rather it not keep me from my next meal.”

When it took off to seek that meal, Gwri hurried forward to where it had lay and scrambled about on his knees, until he saw the sun sparkle upon the ground. There he spotted a circle where a tear had fallen, but when he reached out a finger to touch, he did not feel moisture, instead something stuck to his finger. Held close to his face, he saw a tiny perfectly formed circle of green glass. So clear and delicate he worried that it would break. Thus, he took his water pouch, filled from a spring trickling through the cave, and after a long drink, dropped the tear inside with the hope it would not dissolve. Now he searched for the second tear, finding it only a pace away from the first. Soon it joined its twin inside the pouch.

There was no time to waste. Gathering his gear, Gwri trotted to and through the tunnel, where he found the trail returned. He did not even think as he set foot upon it and allowed it to take him wherever it may.

While he walked, he thought he heard a faint shout from the dragon. Almost he though it shouted, “Butterfly.” But he probably heard wrong, just as he probably was wrong to think it sounded lonely.

Notes: The Exile of the Sons of Uisliu, the Death of the Children of Tuireann, and The Tragic Story of the Children of Lir are known as the Three Sorrows of Storytelling. Links to them are as follows:

• Exile of the Sons of Uisliu é Deirdre of the Sorrows - http://www.maryjones.us/ctexts/usnech.html
• Death of the Children of Tuireann - http://www.maryjones.us/ctexts/turenn.html
• The Tragic Story of the Children of Lir - http://www.maryjones.us/ctexts/lir.html

With his friends placed into the sleep of the ages, by Fintan Mac Gabhann, a minion of the mischievous Goban Saor, Gwri is forced to serve them in their plot to strike back at Brarn the Reaver. Set before him was six tasks to gather six items. Completed five of his six tasks, Gwri finally hears the tale of Fin and learns what faces him in his final task.

he two perfectly formed circles floated upon the surface of the bowl into which Gwri had emptied his water pouch, the afternoon light twinkling off of each. So perfectly formed, yet so perfectly useless.

“What are they for, Fin?”

Gwri’s warden looked up from the bowl when he answered, “They’re to help with the phoenix.”

Surprised that, for the first time, Fin offered an answer, Gwri asked, “How?”

“You know, I wasn’t always someone to hide away from the world.” The smith said, turning his gaze back to the tears floating in the bowl. “Once I was a smith in a village probably little different than your own. I was respected and I was loved.”

He paused, looking deeply into the bowl, almost as if he could scry that past. In turn, Gwri said nothing, not wanting to interrupt the man’s thoughts or chase them away before they could be spoken.

“Her name was Lavena. She was beautiful and when she accepted my hand, she made my world whole, introduced me to a joy I never believed possible. And then she made it greater, when she gave me our son, Eghan. It was......wonderful. Perfect. Maybe that is why it could not last.

“I hated to be gone from them, but I had duties, responsibilities. I was a respected man, the village relied upon me and I served it well. Just as my family grew with my daughter, Cara, so did the village grow, until it became difficult for me to keep up with the demands upon my skill. There was no time to cut my own lumber, to fire my own charcoal. And so one day, I traveled to the neighbouring village and talked to their smith, who told me of the charcoal burners who supplied him. With his directions, I went into the woods and reached a similar agreement. But it was late by the time we finished and they convinced me of the dangers in the forest at night, offering their floor upon which I bedded down to sleep.

“I awoke to a feeling guilty, for Lavena had expected my return the day before. Therefore, I tarried not for breakfast, but immediately began my journey. My only stop was at Widow Brangaine’s, known as the finest dressmaker in the region, and from her I brought a blue dress. It was pretty. I hoped Lavena would forgive my absence when I gave it to her.”

Gwri looked downwards at what he wore, nervous speculation growing within his stomach at what was about to come.

“Arlan met me on the road. He was my friend and saw my approach as he tended his fields. Immediately I knew something was wrong, for he greeted me not in his normal fashion, instead his eyes would not meet mine. He spoke of a fire at my forge during the night and how it must have spread to my nearby home before anybody noticed. He told me how sorry he was, asked if he could do anything to help.”

Now Fin looked directly at Gwri with incredibly sad eyes, but ones that had already shed all their tears. “I was broken. I did not finish my journey home, for home and those I held dear no longer existed. I turned away and walked, eaten by my guilt at not having been there when they needed me most. For not ensuring the forge was safe before I left. For their deaths. Aimlessly I wandered. For how long? I do not know, for it proved to be a time where nothing mattered. But it could not last forever, I could only relive my mistakes so many times before I questioned them. As much as I chastised myself for the forge, part of me knew that I had done nothing wrong, that I had left it safe. I did not cause the fire.”

Fin did not question when he said this, the statement held a conviction of truth. Almost it seemed he challenged Gwri. “I believe you, Fin.”

“A need to know the truth wedged itself into my mind between my grief and my guilt. While I found myself in this state, he came to me with an offer to help learn the truth.

“The Goban Saor?”

“Aye, though at the time I knew him only as a man who offered me a chance at answers. Maybe if I had known the truth, it would have been different, but I doubt it. Above all else, the Goban Saor is skilled at offering what men desire most. For me I needed answers and those he offered to help find. He made me believe in him, probably because he never denied how difficult it would be to find those answer. Almost impossible he said, yet he sold me a dream. that of the phoenix.”

Gwri nodded in bewilderment, realizing a response was expected, but not knowing what to say.

“Have you ever wondered why the phoenix is locked in a never ending cycle of fiery death and rebirth? Because it was not always the case, in the beginning the phoenix was one of the many songbirds that were drawn to áengus, though greater than all the others. Flying not about his head, but at his side or sometimes even serving as his mount. The phoenix was with him when he tricked his father, the Dagda, into giving him his home in BrẠna Bá³inne, when he slew Lugh Lamfada, and while he searched for Caer, the girl in his dreams.

“And together the two watched over and protected the son of Donn, Lord of the Dead, who asked áengus to raise Diarmuid as his foster-child. áengus and the phoenix nurtured the boy through childhood and offered aid when the young man fled under a geis placed upon him by Grá¡inne, daughter of Cormac mac Airt, who found the handsome young warrior irresistible and wished not to marry the aged Fionn. Many were their trials until áengus brought piece between Fionn and the couple, allowing them to settle at Keshcorran in County Sligo. But neither step-father nor phoenix were present when Diarmuid joined Fionn in a boar hunt upon Ben Bulben and so the prophecy that Donn`s son would be killed by a boar came to pass. All the two found when they arrived was Diarmuid`s corpse, which they took home to BrẠna Bá³inne, while the soul returned to its father, Donn.

“Deep was áengus's sorrow at failing to keep his foster-son alive, for in a life devoted to love, Diarmuid held a special place. Questions arose in his mind. Was he not more of a father than Donn could ever be? Why then was the Dark One rewarded while he only had an empty shell? Unable to accept the loss, áengus mounted the phoenix and flew to Tech Duinn, where he confronted Donn, demanding Diarmuid be returned to life. And though in life, the Lord of the Dead had placed his son into the hands of someone so full of life, in death he felt his son belonged with him. Thus he held tightly to what was his and rebuffed both demands and pleas, finally he banished áengus from his island.”

The smith did not have the skill of his grandmother, nor even Gwri, at telling a story, but that did not stop the changeling from being mesmerized by the tale. Not a word did he speak as Fin paused to dip a cup into a pail of water. Emptying the cup, Fin continued.

“However, while speaking to Donn, áengus had noticed the Dark One glance towards a steaming cauldron whenever Diarmuid’s name was mentioned. áengus guessed this vessel held the soul of his foster-son and with diplomacy having failed, he decided to try stealth. In the deepest night, áengus and the phoenix once more flew to Tech Duinn. There they waited and they watched, hoping Donn would wander away from his seat, leaving them free to venture forth and take what they sought. Many days passed, Donn sitting as if a statue upon his throne, before the Dark One’s head swiveled and he looked into the distance. Neither of the watchers heard or saw what drew his attention, but they felt a surge of anticipation when the Lord of the Dead heaved himself to his feet and stomped off in that direction.

“Chance offered, áengus crept from his hiding place and to the Cauldron of Souls. There a lesser man would have been stumped, but áengus came prepared. Looking into the cauldron, with its contents that boiled despite there being no fire under the stand upon which it sat, áengus lifted a chain over his head from his neck. A chain from which hung an iron ring that had long circled the thumb of Diarmuid`s hand. Holding the chain, áengus let the ring drop into the cauldron. Immediately it took on a glow as it attracted the essence of its owner. When the glowing stopped and the ring was lifted from the murky pool, áengus found it cold to the touch and changed to silver, rather than iron. Satisfied he draped the chain once more around his neck and turned to leave.

“But the cauldron would not give up its bounty so readily. Barely had he turned before he felt the ring being pulled towards the cauldron. As the ring upon its chain was pulled, so to was the thief. Unable to leave with his prize, but unwilling to leave without it, áengus allowed himself to be pulled in the direction of the cauldron. Pulled within a pace, he kicked its stand out from beneath the cauldron, spilling many lifetimes of souls onto the floor.

“Suddenly áengus realized what he had wrought in his grief. Like a naughty child, embarrassment caused him to flee to where the phoenix waited, seeking escape. However, Donn was drawn by the sound of the cauldron’s crash. Outraged at the desecration, he spotted the phoenix climbing into the air, though he did not see áengus upon its back. And so he called forth to the seas surrounding his island to rise into a mighty storm. Caught in the winds and the rains of the storm, the phoenix and its rider were pummeled from all sides, until áengus was ripped from his seat to plummet towards the seas. Just before he splashed down, he rescued himself by turning into a swan and in this form he rode out the storm, upon its giant waves, and then took flight for BrẠna Bá³inne. There he placed the silver ring upon the thumb of Diarmuid’s corpse and once more he heard his foster-son speak.”

Gwri had heard the stories of Diarmuid many times before, including those that included áengus, but never the version told by Fin. Still their end was not the end that interested him, one question remained. “Fin, what happened to the phoenix?”

“Ah yes, the phoenix. Not being a bird of the seas, it flew towards the nearest land when separated from áengus. Unfortunately, that was Tech Duinn, where waited the Dark One, who imprisoned it while he contemplated cruel punishment. For with the cauldron of souls cracked from its fall, he no longer had a vessel, beyond himself, to hold the deaths he gathered. And strong willed though he was, Donn already staggered beneath the weight of those he had rescued from the broken cauldron, never mind the continuous flow of new despair.

“He decided it was only right that the trespasser, who he believed to have done the damage, should help him carry the load. Therefore, Donn climbed to the top of the highest tower in Tech Duinn, where the phoenix roosted, a shackle about its leg. One after another he fed it the deaths that he had rescued. Slowly its beautiful plumage lost its lustre and colour, becoming dull and colourless, since the bird who had only known beauty and joy was unable to understand the sorrow cascading down upon it. The songs that it had once sung were washed away by a tide of sorrow. Finally it could no longer accept anymore anguish and its heart burst. However, Donn would not accept its death.

“What he had been unwilling to do for Diarmuid, Donn now attempted to force upon the phoenix. Finding its broken body unable to hold onto its being, he summoned forth a conflagration to consume the carcass, until all that remained were numerous eggs scattered about the perch where it had once roosted. If someone were to have counted, they would have found one hen, sized egg of smoky grey translucence for each death it had consumed. They also would have seen one other egg, much larger and glowing with an internal fire that grew steadily brighter before it shattered. For a moment, the phoenix reborn appeared as glorious as ever, its song bursting forth in hopeful renewal.

“Some say that hope can be the most cruel of emotions, since it so often toys with its owners. However, if you have ever been without it, you will that its absence is worse. The phoenix shows the truth behind this, cruel though Donn’s ongoing punishment towards the bird may be, how much worse would it be if at every rebirth it did not hope that things would this time be better?”

“But doesn’t Donn know the truth?” Gwri asked. “That áengus, not the phoenix, broke the cauldron?”

“Probably.”

“Why does he continue to punish it? Why hasn’t áengus done something.”

“The Dark One probably no longer sees it as punishment, for it serves him well, gathering the dead. As for áengus, never forget that the friendship of our betters means more to us than it does to them.”

Gwri nodded at this truth. Even in wanting to believe in a god like áengus, who championed beauty and youth, he could not deny that other tales hinted at someone whose temper readily changed. Nervous at the expected answer to his next questioned, “So I need to rescue the phoenix?”

Fin initial answer was a snort. “Hardly. No, I expect you’re to claim your dead. For you alone cannot pull off your masquerade.”

“And the dragon’s tears?

“In birth and death the phoenix burns as brightly as the afternoon’s sun. To look upon it during this time is to look upon the last thing you would ever see. But a dragon is also a creature of fire, its flame burns just as brightly, and with its tears so to will you be protected.”

With his friends placed into the sleep of the ages, by Fintan Mac Gabhann, a minion of the mischievous Goban Saor, Gwri is forced to serve them in their plot to strike back at Brarn the Reaver. Set before him was six tasks to gather six items. This is the tale of the last of those tasks.

arely did they bother him. Although at times, when he thought about the dragon’s tears, his long lashes would flutter, though not in the manner of a flirt, instead it seemed he tried to stave off a nervous tick. However, Gwri’s initial thoughts when he learned what he was to do with the tears had been unease. something that had taken the rest of the day to overcome. Even then, he needed Fin’s help. The smith’s gentle strength overcoming Gwri’s squeamishness, as the two tears fell into place like drops of rain. He felt no discomfort, no sudden burst of unnatural sight, the only impact was to turn his eyes a brilliant green and to fill his mind with the knowledge of their presence.

Actually the unease proved less than the distaste he felt at wearing a dead woman’s dress. A feeling that caused him to search through the packs of his sleeping friends, finding a tunic and trousers within Con’s that somewhat fit. Once clothed, it seemed wrong to continue his delay. And so a four nights after Fin had told his tale, Gwri said, “I think it’s time. Tomorrow morning I will head out.”

“What’s your plan?” Fin asked.

“I really don’t know. I’m not sure what I’m getting into, nor how to find the proper eggs even if I have the chance. I guess, like áengus and the storms, I have just grown used to riding out the waves. Knowing my luck, this is the one that will drown me.”

“Well I have confidence in you.”

“It`s good that someone does.”

“In fact...ahh, never mind.”

“What is it?”

“Well I don’t really have the right to ask. Not after what I’ve helped do to you.”

Gwri had no need to be told what was on the smith’s mind and since he no longer blamed the man, he said, “If I can, Fin, I’ll try to return with your dead as well as mine. But I cannot promise.”

The smith looked downwards at the offer, hiding his face. But he gave a quick nod and in a hushed tone said, “Thank you, Gwri”

The two did not speak of the matter again, neither that evening nor over breakfast in the morning. Nor did they discuss the seeming hopelessness of the verse’s task. In fact they spoke little, though Gwri did leave with a deeply felt, “Good luck.”

Where his journey to the dragon’s den had been filled with dark humour, this one was quite different. Maybe it was because the end, be it good or bad, seemed attainable. Possibly it was the sorrow of the smith’s and the phoenix’s tale, which caused his own to pale in comparison. Or more likely the hope each felt despite those sorrows. Very likely it had nothing to do with anything other than it being a beautiful summer day, the type he had always enjoyed. Not the type of day one associated with going to Tech Duinn. Yet it was a day to enjoy and Gwri took the opportunity to do so. Only when he smelled the sea did he begin to wonder how the Goban Saor planned to get him to the Island of the Dead.

Before that answer became needed, the path led him to and along side a river, which also descended from the mountain. Over a stone’s throw wide, it held not the eagerness of winter’s melt, but still flowed with a speed that made it dangerous. Guessing the river emptied into the sea, Gwri followed until its murmur turned into a roar as it cascaded over the edge of high cliff into the sea below. For a time, he stared at the majestic sight, wondering how to continue.

No option existed but to stay upon the Goban Saor’s path, trusting in it. A trust sorely tested when the path dropped over the edge of the cliff face, down onto a ledge that circled behind the curtain of water. Carefully Gwri lowered himself to the stone, fearing that errant splatter from the falls made it slippery, before he moved behind the waterfall and spotted narrow steps cut into the stone wall. Weaving back and forth, he slowly made his way to the bottom where waited a cave, the sun’s rays passing through the water to bathe it in a gentle blue glow.

Exploration found the trail led into a tunnel at the back of the cave. Knowing the Goban Saor’s penchant for tunnels Gwri suspected he had found his route to Tech Duinn. However, he decided not yet to proceed. Instead, with the descent soaking him to the skin, his attention was drawn to a stack of wood. Seeing the opportunity to dry his clothing, Gwri started a fire and waited for the morrow.

Later, while wrapped in his blanket as his clothes lay beside the fire, he tracked the sun’s descent upon the curtain of water and the moon’s rise. The hypnotic sound of its noise, less of a roar when behind and below than it had been above and beside, lulling him into sleep.

Night still reigned when he awoke, only embers from the fire providing a sullen red highlight against the dark. Embers he stirred into awareness with a log that soon offered itself up in flame for light and warmth, allowing him to drop the blanket and pull on his still damp clothing. Dressed, he broke his fast and prepared three torches, thrusting the first into the fire and setting it ablaze.

With the torch held above his head, Gwri moved into the tunnel. Remembering the danger at the end of the tunnels in which he had gathered honey for the comb and captured a dragon’s tears, he was surprised at his lack of nervousness.

Switching to his second torch, he wondered if three would be enough, but soon after Gwri reached his destination. A stone wall with metal rungs embedded into leading to a wooden trapdoor in the roof overhead. Now fear made itself felt, as he realized he planned to steal from the Dark One, the thing that had led to the phoenix’s horrific punishment. If caught, he doubted fate would show him the same kindness shown to áengus.

At the same moment, Gwri realized that the fear would not stop him from climbing those rungs and opening the trapdoor. So placing his torch in a bracket mounted on the wall, he climbed until he could press his ear against the wooden door. However, he heard nothing through the thick planks. He raised a hand above his head, pushing up on a corner of the door and perched on his toes to peek through the crack. From what he could see, little more than flagstones and what appeared to be barrels, he guessed the trapdoor opened into a storeroom. Additional furtive looks did nothing to change his initial suspicion.

Taking a deep breath, he slowly lifted the trapdoor and slid it onto the floor, careful to make as little sound as possible. When the opening was exposed, Gwri reached with both hands to grab ahold of the its sides and heave himself through, twisting to sit on the floor while his legs still dangled below.

His actions were met by someone clapping behind him.

Spinning towards the sound, Gwri spotted a man sitting upon one of the barrel, watching with an amused expression on his face. A large man dressed in brown clothing of exceptional quality, his brown hair and beard were perfectly trimmed. And though the watcher appeared in the prime of his live, he had an ageless quality about him. Gwri knew he looked upon Donn, the Dark One. Guilt at such early discovery made him flush in embarrassment and stammer out an apology.

“Worry not or at least worry less. I know you are no more to blame for being here than would be a puppet. The Goban Saor would not have spent years digging the tunnel if he had not expected it to be used. No reason capture would alter his plans.”

“Lord Donn?” Gwri asked in confusion.

“Your puppet-master had no better luck in arriving undetected than did you, for I guard my home more carefully than I did in the past. And when I met him here, just as I met you, he did not hesitate to tell me his plans.”

“You knew I was coming?”

“Better to say I suspected someone would come, though not specifically who, Gwri of Mullinglas. Still I had little doubt that the Goban Saor, after the troubles he experienced in preparation for this escapade, would coerce someone into helping him against Brarn. Particularly after he realized I hold my own grievance with the reaver and the Morrigu’s geis, under which he lives. It has allowed Brarn to escape from my domain, no matter how often he should have been died.”

Gwri felt a moment of hope at this pronouncement, but just as quickly it dampened with doubt things could be so easy. However, Donn must have noticed the hope flare.

“So I took that into consideration when negotiating a fitting punishment for his trespass. He agreed to serve me from the time of his capture until Samhain until Bealtaine and then to Samhain again. But since I have already admitted your crime is less than his, to you I present a lesser punishment, to serve me from now until Samhain and then until Bealtaine.”

“What would you have me do?” Gwri asked, almost forgetting what little choice he had in the matter.

“I doubt you have the skills of your patron, who built me a great hall during his captivity.” Donn said, not waiting for an answer. “Before seeing you, I suspected it was his masterpiece. He truly is skilled beyond all other craftsmen, for even in those rags you are quite magnificent to look upon. Frown not, I know the truth behind your guise, lovely though it may be. And so, for you, I have a different task.”

ike uncounted times since his arrival upon Tech Duinn, Gwri awoke in the simple chamber he called his own. Uncounted because time moved strangely on the Island of the Dead, having a rhythm to which he had slowly grown accustomed. So he sensed, but did not know, he had plenty of time to get ready. Which was proven by the wait for a knock on the door. An escort was the one thing to mark those who were prisoners, amongst all who moved throughout the halls of Donn’s cavernous fortress.

The people surprised Gwri the most. From stories heard, the Dark One’s home always matched this appellation, barren and dark, empty and gloomy. However, while Donn held dominion over the dead, his demesne also consisted of the entire island and a mighty fortress, which he kept sparsely populated through deals. Similar to those he had with the Goban Saor or Gwri, though normally an agreement initiated by the other party, those at death’s door.

When meeting one of Donn`s subjects, he found it possible to speculate why he answered their plea. Invariably each was a great warrior, a skilled craftsman, a brilliant bard, or any such person who enriched Tech Duinn. But the deals each had struck were unknown, never to be spoken.

Despite his status as a prisoner, the knock upon his door was courteous, as was the warrior who waited on the other side to guide him to his destination. A walk he could have made on his own, for it always led to the same place, the great hall that Donn had spoken of during first meeting, the hall built by the Goban Saor during his imprisonment.

Every time Gwri walked through its doors he found himself stopping to stare. As Donn had said, it was a masterpiece, besides which the great hall in Lisdarrow appeared seemed fit only for hogs. Shaped into a circle, a large man took one hundred and sixty two steps to cross from one side to the other, stepping between twelve concentric rings of marble, from purest white through darker shades until he reached a circle of red and then back across those same colours in reverse. The walls, the same stone as the outer ring, rose beyond sight and held nine windows, each as tall as the highest tree, inviting in light while keeping out rain with giant sheets of glass. And in the second ring were nine round pillars of stone to match, carved vines of ivy twisting around each and topped by another ring reached via metal stairs spiralling about the tower between wall and pillar. If one climbed to the top of those stairs, they would find two marble rings, which mimicked those upon the floor below, with nine pillars thrusting higher, stairs circling about to take someone to the next level. Seven more times this would be repeated, until the entire structure ended with a red platform, where the phoenix roosted.

Few of those who populated the hall, be they deep in conversation, eating from a table flowing with the Dark One’s bounty, or dancing to music played by a harpist whose skill Gwri could only imagine owning, would ever climb to the top. Instead they happily celebrated the moment, ignoring both the future and the past in a way possible only to those who seen their own end. In the Hall of Death, the prevailing emotion was joy.

However, scattered about the hall were figures dressed in red gowns, they had been to the top of the tower, had seen the phoenix. Every one of them was beautiful and the celebration of the now swirled about them, in their laughter and on the dance floor where they gracefully twirled about. For them, a single blemish in their appearance was allowed, a blemish that enhanced rather than diminished. A strip of red lace, tied end to end underneath their long hair, covered each pair of eyes. Sometimes, it signified they accepted the risk of looking upon ultimate sorrow. Other times, the wearer had already looked upon it, their masks hid not vibrant colour, but sightless eyes of milky white. They were the Maidens of the Phoenix, who climbed the stairs and gathered the dead spilled by Donn’s vessel when it burst into renewal.

Only a moment was Gwri allowed to look before he noticed Donn approach and offer an arm. Short was the pause before Gwri reached out to take it with both of his hands, allowing the man to escort him, the skirts of his red gown gracefully swaying as they moved to the fifth ring to join the rest of the dancers.

In time, Gwri`s smile became less wooden, swept up by the enthusiasm of those around him. It always happened, alone he could brood upon his existence as pretty maiden who danced with men, but within Donn`s great hall, surrounded by those who celebrated the moment, he could not help but be caught within its thrall. Noticing the thaw, Donn’s own smile grew larger, as he spun Gwri into the next dance. Three more songs played before the end of the last found them at the foot of stairs, leading into the tower.

Letting go of Gwri’s waist, Donn stepped backwards, offered a bow, and said, “Careful, war is afoot.”

Watching the Dark One walk into the crowd, choosing his next maiden, Gwri placed a foot upon the first stair to begin his ascent. As he climbed, he thought on the offered warning. It, along with the similar one concerning sickness and plague, always made a maiden nervous. Both meant death came more frequently, which increased the chance she would be caught by the phoenix`s demise. During his time in Tech Duinn, one maiden had experienced that fate and sometimes, when alone in his chamber, he found himself reliving the sounds of her shrieks, as she had been helped from the tower. Her return to the fold, somehow as able as before, offered little comfort.

The climb was long and boring. Gwri always tried to count the steps, but as always lost count. He studied the pillars on each level, many carved by a whimsical mind, but he had studied them before. He wondered why he never grew tired on the long climb, but felt glad it was true.

On the final ring, just before the phoenix’s platform, he found an attendant waiting. Who weaved baskets from reeds and filled them with straw, preparing for eggs to be gathered and carried away. Taking one of the baskets, Gwri’s unease grew as he recognized the maiden who had been blinded during his stay. Not unusual, since the blind always acted as attendants, both to give them a task and to serve as reminder about what waited on the next level. Still...

With basket in hand, Gwri mounted the last flight of stairs. His pace no different than during the entire climb until he reached eye-level with the platform. Like all the Maidens of the Phoenix, his sight was immediately drawn to the bird.

Never had he seen it in such dire straits. It seemed smaller, with plumage was a dull as dirt and its eyes, which usually followed him like a watching hawk, drooped shut. Gwri knew he had little time to collect the eggs scattered about the platform and place them in his basket. Yet he could not rush, for despite their surprising firmness, he wished not to break one of the smoky eggs and earn a punishment unknown. Turning to look at the phoenix, whenever he placed egg into basket, his anxiety grew greater. Believing himself finished he hurried towards the stairs, turning to look one more time.

What he saw dismayed him.

On the other side of the platform, near its edge, rested a single egg. One he had missed. Tempted to ignore it, he wondered if it were a test. Deciding he could not chance it, Gwri scurried across to pick up the lone egg and place it with the others. He turned and saw the phoenix looked towards him, a look that almost begged forgiveness in its eyes.

Gwri wondered why he did not burn? Was the flame too hot to feel? He braced for the pain, but it did not come.

Then reason reminded him that the other maiden, the one who waited below, had not suffered burns from her exposure to the phoenix’s flame, only the loss of sight. He opened his eyes, but they were already open, seeing nothing. Almost it seemed as if the spots that appeared whenever he looked towards the sun had claimed his entire vision. Feeling objects, doubtless newly created eggs, bouncing off of him, he realized the dragon’s tears had failed. And with their failure, he thought all had failed. All that he had experienced in this crazy adventure was for naught.

“Sister? Sister? Are you okay?”

Turning towards the sound, he at first saw nothing. But slowly a shape appeared, causing him to close and reopen his eyes. Now he saw the red of his colleague’s dress, but not until after more blinks did he see her, an expression of concern on her lovely face.

“I can see? I can see.”

“But how?”

Unsure how to answer the question, asked in tone both of wonder and anger, Gwri focussed upon a glowing egg, unlike all the others. Anticipation grew as cracks appeared and then in a burst.

The phoenix had returned.

Gorgeous in a way unimagined. In that moment, even before it burst into wondrous song, Gwri accepted all indignities he had endured. To live that moment, he would willingly experience anything.

“It is beautiful.” The blind maiden said, though only able only to hear the song.

“Yes, sister, it is.”

But the spark already dimmed. Wishing to keep the image and song in his mind, Gwri decided to let someone else could collect the new bounty of souls. So he linked a red sleeved arm with his own and together the two maidens descended to the first landing where they shared a moment of awed silence.

Finally the other maiden said, “You should go.”

Nodding his head, though she could not see, Gwri let go of her arm and started his descent. One slower than his climb, for he still felt caught in the wonder of renewed sight. Frequent were his pauses whenever he discovered something previously unseen in the Goban Saor’s carvings. And when he reached the bottom, he was almost overwhelmed by the appearance of the revelers. They were beautiful, both the women and the men, and they were so alive. He could not help but smile his joy. A smile answered by each person he passed in his walk to the door, where the warrior waited to escort him as he delivered his basket.

This led them to another door, through which Gwri entered to be met by another waiting attendant. After he handed her the basket, he found himself following as she moved into the giant storage room, walking between rows of shelving. Every so often the maiden would stop to stand one of the eggs from the basket, the fat end down, upon a hole drilled into the shelves. Almost he asked how she knew where each egg belonged, but stopped when he realized it was knowledge he did not wish to own. Instead he silently followed, sensing she lead him somewhere.

The basket was nearly empty when the maiden reached a section far from the door. However, when she continued onward, Gwri did go with her. He felt drawn towards the section of shelving upon which he had last seen her place an last egg.

“So it is time to claim your dead.” Donn asked, appearing from the dark with a basket in his hand.

“Truly?”

“Yes, truly. You have served me well, but we struck a bargain, one you ably fulfilled. Now it is my turn.”

With unerring judgment, the Dark One moved along the shelf, choosing individual eggs from amongst the many, including the last one placed. Finished, he handed the full basket to Gwri and said, “Without their bodies, they will be yours only for a short time before returning to me. But that time should be enough. And this, take it for your friend, the smith.”

This was a pouch, in which Gwri felt a single egg. Placing Fin’s dead in the basket with his own, he said, “Thank you, Lord Donn.”

The Dark One smiled his smile and said, “I look forward to when we next meet.”

His tasks completed, Gwri now is only left to face his dead and those upon who he would seek their revenge.

omething felt wrong. Gwri sensed it before he stepped onto the plateau where Fin’s home stood. A silence greater than the norm, even here where birds rarely roosted. Even the stable appeared empty. Again he wished for a sword or spear in hand as he carefully crept forward to look inside. He saw no horses, nor did it appear to have recently housed any within.

From the stable, he made for the hut, finding it empty. Though not unusual, Gwri suspected something was not right and searched for a weapon. However, the wall against which Fin leaned his spears was bare. He exchanged his basket for a knife from the table, good for little more than cutting bread or cheese, before he stepped through the blanket covered opening. As he crept downwards to the forge he hoped to hear the sounds of Fin working. Yet no noise rose to greet him, for it too was empty.

Nobody was there.

Not the smith, nor any of Gwri’s three friends. He did not even see the reeds upon which they had slept the long sleep of the fae. But why? What mischief were the Goban Saor and his minion up to now? What had they done to his friends?

With no clues as to the men’s whereabouts in the forge, Gwri returned above ground. Unlike moments earlier, this time he noticed the contents of the room not just the lack of occupants. It seemed different. Though everything appeared in place, with nothing new, it somehow felt more lived in. While pondering this mystery, a flash of green at the corner of his eye drew his attention. There, upon the pallet that he had claimed as his own, lay the green dress that once belonged to Queen Donella. Beside it lay the golden belt and white shift, all ready for someone to don.

In that moment all mystery disappeared. Gwri remembered the terms of his punishment meant he would serve Donn until Bealtaine. And during Bealtaine he long had expected to masquerade as the day’s fairest queen, bait to draw the attention of Brarn. Hopefully to be taken by him and when alone, utilizing surprise and relying upon the chink in the armour offered by the geis Morrigu had placed upon Brarn, claim revenge for all of the reaver’s victims. But a Bealtaine queen could not exist by herself, so Gwri had ventured to Tech Duinn. She also needed her village, so while Gwri sought its inhabitants, Fin’s assignment required him to build a village in which they would wait for the crew of the Dá­oltas. Doubtlessly, the others were drafted to complete the building in time for Gwri’s return.

Had he finally reached the end?

It never had seemed impossible that he would even get this far, yet chance and fortune had led him to a point unreachable if he relied only upon skill and forethought. Still with all he had experienced, he had only reached the end of the preparation. Now was the time to determine if those preparations had been wasted, to see if he succeeded, and if that lead to happiness? Clearing away those thoughts, Gwri remembered his lessons of Tech Duinn. Too easily could the importance of now shrink when compared to the past that lurked in one’s mind or the future that beckoned one into the murky unknown.

Taking off his trousers and tunic of a better quality and fit than those he had worn when caught by the Dark One, he changed into the green dress, wrapping the golden belt about his small waist. He found the comb from his first adventure, removed the butterflies, and brushed his long honey coloured hair until it gleamed. Finished, he swept the hair out of his face and pinned the strands into place with the ornaments, ensuring they would not snag if given the chance to use them for their intended purpose. All of this he did without thought, for Gwri had not only learned to live in the now while serving as a Maiden of the Phoenix, in time he adopted the habits and learned the mannerisms that made him a match for any. With this had come acceptance, even pride of his place amongst the other beauties. As a result, his being had been molded to better match the molding of his form.

Ready for his performance, Gwri waited outside for the arrival of Fin or Con or either of the brothers. But none of them appeared, causing him to wonder if he had misread the purpose of the clothing upon the pallet. As the sun set, he spotted flames in the distance and realized that the fires of Bealtaine waited. Collecting his basket of souls from inside he set foot, one final time, upon the trail that had guided his steps for so long, an eager readiness infusing his thoughts. His pace quickened as he neared the fires and saw a figure highlighted by the flames.

“Fin.”

The smith turned at the call, staring in shock. No less than Gwri’s own. Despite the grey in his hair, Fin always seemed to have an ageless quality about him. A solidness that placed the smith in the prime of his life. No more was this the case. Grey hair had turned to white, sturdy muscles had shrunk, and a straight back had bent.

“How?”

“Gwri, is it really you? I had almost lost hope. You were gone so long.”

As the awful truth, behind the strange flow of time on the Island of the Dead, filled his thoughts, Gwri asked, “How long have I been gone?”

“I don’t know. Years? You left so long ago. What happened to you? We thought you had failed.”

“I was at Tech Duinn, serving Donn. It did not seem to be years to me? But you said we, where are the others; Con, Tanguy, and Sloan?”

“They’ve been gone for years as well. When last you left, the Goban Saor came and awoke them. Lucky for me, because they directed their wrath at him rather than me. He told them that they needed to help me build a village for your return. We did, over there.”

Looking out into the darkness at which Fin pointed, Gwri saw nothing. Instead he asked, “Will they be joining us?”

“When you did not come that first year, they returned to your village. For a time, at each Bealtaine, they would appear. Then one year, only the brothers came, saying Con was too sick to travel. But they never believed, they didn’t need to believe. Since then I have conducted these vigils alone.”

Gwri took a moment to understand what Fin did not say. His head lowered, his gaze going to the interior of the basket, as he wondered who he had claimed.

“Did you succeed?” Fin asked, a hint of excitement entering his voice, warring with the confusion of moment’s past.

The question served as a welcome distraction. It gave Gwri a chance to ignore his building grief, to focus on another that had never grown stale. So he reached into the basket for the pouch Donn had offered as his final act and held it out to the smith. Barely able to see the hopeful look on the man’s face, because of his own building tears, Gwri said, “I succeeded.”

Fin stared at the pouch, wondering if it truly held the long sought answer to the demon’s that almost drove him mad. Looking from it to Gwri, seeing a nod of a lovely head, he slowly reached out, gently taking the pouch, and holding it to his chest. Yet though his heart demanded he look inside, he did not. He waited.

“Go, Fin. We each have our own past we need to face. Better to do it on our own.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

No more words did the share, though Gwri watched the smith’s back until it disappeared up the trail. He momentarily wondered what the man would learn, but his own past beckoned. Again he reached into the basket, his hand unerringly finding the egg that marked his freedom from Tech Duinn. Cupping it in a hand he hesitated, then with a deep breath Gwri tossed it into the fire at his right.

It never landed. As the egg flew, the fire`s flames reached out in caress. The shell glowed, cracked, and burst. Allowing the smoke inside to roll out and dance with that from the Bealtaine fire. And when the smoke from the fire of life coupled with that of death, the two birthed a ghostly figure who quickly became real.

Sloan landed on the far side of the fire, almost as if he had just completed a jump made many times during Bealtaine festivals. Hale, younger than when he had journeyed from Mullinglas, though not the youth who had escaped Brarn’s net, he turned a smile unlike his normal glower towards Gwri. Who in turn found himself smiling back and reaching for more eggs. One went into the left fire, then into the right, again to the left, and finally to the right. Beside Sloan now stood Tanguy and Nareene and Con and his grandmother, Keelin.

Though more eggs remained, Gwri stopped. Their time would come, but these five were his own, while the rest were theirs. He needed his moment, which started when Keelin wrapped her arms around him and allowed him to cry on her shoulder.

oo long had he been alone. Even when with others, be it Fin or Ann or Aife or any of Donn’s court, he had not been with those he loved and who loved him in turn. And though his heart threatened to break, because after this night that would never again be possible, Gwri smiled. He laughed at the jokes of the ghosts with whom he celebrated Bealtaine Eve, he joined in their songs, he blushed at praises to his beauty, and accepted offers of dance from those who gave the praise. And in moments of silence, he sat with friends and shared. He met his mother, he met his father, and when he saw how much they loved each other he took little of the time they would share with the other.

Yet in that time together he learned if he had been born a girl, they would have named him Oriana. In that moment he was reborn. Always he would be Gwri, but now he accepted, just as all his loved ones seemed to accept, that he was no longer only Gwri. An acceptance born from their knowledge about the journey he had traveled, even though he did not speak of it.

In truth, it was Oriana that left the burnt out fires in the morning with the villagers on the trip towards the buildings that would temporarily be their home. It was Oriana who walked beside Berta, each with an arm around the other’s waist. It was Oriana’s head upon which Kentigem placed a crown he had weaved from spring flowers. And it was Oriana who waited in the village centre, with five other lovely maidens, all the others surrounding them in a protective cocoon that everybody expected to soon be sundered.

It was Gwri who saw six strangers appear in the distance, walking unhurriedly forward.

As they approached, he studied them. Each was larger than the largest man he had ever met, but none moved with his awkwardness. They owned a grace that made a mockery of his own deadly dance with Aife at Leitergort and they knew it. Their handsome faces showed uncaring confidence, as if what they approached a herd of cattle meant for slaughter. Nor did the waiting villagers, each holding a weapon found within the otherwise empty huts, give them pause.

They attacked.

Parley was not part of Dá­oltas crew’s vocabulary. They took what they wanted, leaving death and destruction in their wake. Yet never had they fought the dead, who had nothing to lose and nothing to gain. Not caring about defense, the dead rushed forward to their doom, seeking with number to pull down one of the reavers. At first the six were stunned by a ferocious counter-attack and soon each bled from a cuts; however, their skill, forged during many battles, and their fearsome weapons proved the difference. Villagers collapsed to the ground, meeting their deaths in the same manner as years before, until only Tanguy and Sloan remained. Soon they too dropped and the six moved forward to capture the six girls.

Hands tied in front , the prisoners marched with their grim captors until they arrived at a shore that should not exist, a large boat pulled onto the beach. There they were lifted aboard, after which they dealt with their wounds before pushing Dá­oltas out into the seas, three taking hold of the oars to the right and three the oars to the left. With these they propelled their vessel over the calm seas.

Their silence is what Gwri noticed. No words were spoken, complaints uttered, or prideful boasts proclaimed. Barely did they look at each other or towards the captives. They seemed less lifelike than the girls with whom he was held captive.

At some point he slept and when he opened his eyes he saw dark skies overhead, stars flickering through clouds that floated out of sight. Still they silently rowed.

His next awakening came after the sun had returned to the sky. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Gwri rose to look over the edge, drawing only a glance from one of the men. On the horizon he spotted a town, a blockish tower looming overhead, marked with numerous piers thrust out into the water, the largest of which proved to be the Dioltas’ destination.

For the first time, the warriors appeared human, slumping in their seats in exhaustion. But only for a moment, as other people appeared with horses in tow, their posture and face turned again to stone. One one of their number tossed a rope to a man on the dock, who tied their boat in place, which allowed five to climb overboard. The largest remained and he turned towards the waiting captives. One at a time he scooped each them his arms, ignoring protests or squeaks of surprise, and pitched them upwards to be caught by the second largest of his brothers.

First to be so manhandled, Gwri’s face tried to hide his embarrassment at this treatment and the squeak he had allowed to escape. Set upon his feet, he watched his crown, fallen from his head to the bottom of the boat, get crushed beneath the sole of the man’s boot as he finished unloading their prizes from the boat. Joining his brothers, all the reavers finally turned their attention upon the captives.

Almost Gwri wished they leered, like the men with the horses. Instead their eyes roamed over curvaceous forms and beautiful faces in appraisal little different than a trader looking over a potential purchase.

In that moment a horrifying thought entered his mind. What if Brarn did not choose him? To have come so far and not be given a chance to succeed would be worse than having died before he reached this point. So he too studied the men, remembering the story of their naming and trying to determine who was Brarn. Maccus and Calum, the largest and the smallest, were the first he recognized. Then Fiacre and Dewain, the fairest and the darkest. But the two who remained could have blood brothers, rather than only in spirit. Brarn and Brasil, who was who?

Gwri held his breath as one of those two stepped forward and clutched the red haired girl by her upper arm. However, before disappointment could overwhelm he saw the war hammer, strapped to the man’s back, stretching above his head. Four more time he chanced failure until he nearly slumped in relief when the last man, Brarn, stepped forward, took his arm, and led him towards the horses.

With a heave the warrior settled Gwri atop the horse, before climbing behind his prize. Taking reins in one hand, he wrapped the other arm around his Gwri’s waist and held his captive against his chest. He must have felt the tremor this induced, for in a deep voice, he said, “Worry not, Pretty Lady, I am not always a monster.”

No answer formed in Gwri’s mind, so he said nothing. Nor did Brarn speak again before they arrived at the tower.

The tower matched what Gwri had expected of Tech Duinn. Built of dark stone, it perched above the village like a watching crow, an iron clad door of barring entry to anyone who Morrigu’s son wished to keep out. Through this door twelve entered, conquerors and captives, the other men having returned to the village. Dark and foreboding though the outside had appeared, the interior offered little more comfort. They found themselves in a square room meant for cooking, with a blocky table in the middle, a large fireplace, currently unlit, on the far wall, and foodstuff stored along the right wall.

But this room served not as their destination. Brarn, with Gwri in tow, led the five other couples to the bottom of a set of stairs, winding upwards, back and forth, against the wall to the left. Ugly and plain, the climb held nothing of the majesty imbued within the Tower of the Phoenix. But like that tower, the climb passed a number of landings, each holding a door into a single room. Stopped before each, the reavers would clench forearm to forearm with one of their companions, before he would open the door and step through with his bride, allowing the others to continue their climb. First Brasil, then Calum, then Dewain, then Fiacre, and finally Maccus. Only Brarn and Gwri climbed the last flight to find a last landing, entered the last door, and barred it from inside.

The room, slightly smaller than that at the bottom of the tower, proved sparsely furnished, which meant Gwri’s attention was immediately drawn to the bed. But Brarn did not move towards it as he removed his axe from his back and leaned it against the wall, before he sat in the lone chair and gazed at the figure in the green dress. Under this attention Gwri failed to keep himself from fidgeting. This brought something approaching a smile to the man’s face, who twirled his finger. Gwri glared in response, but spun in a slow circle.

As he turned, Gwri found himself wondering how to perform his assassination. Though slumped in the chair, the reaver still had a watchfulness in his eyes and the axe was within easy reach. Nor could Gwri do anything with his wrists still tied together. That he needed to rectify before anything else.

“Will you undo my hands, Lord?”

“Come here.”

As Gwri approached, Brarn pulled a knife from his belt and looked at his captive’s outstretched hands. “And what will you offer in exchange for this favour, Pretty Lady?”

“I, I have nothing.”

“Your dress.”

“Pardon?”

“That is my price in exchange for freeing from your bindings.”

“I doubt it would fit you, Lord?”

Brarn did not react to this quip, he only arched a questioning brow. And as much as Gwri disliked where the offer implied to lead, it was a price he knew he must pay. He nodded his agreement. Taking both of Gwri’s hands in one his own, Brarn slid the blade between each slender wrist and leather thong, to release him. Gwri took a moment to rub his wrists, even though the bindings had left no marks, attempting to build his courage. Not until he saw the humour vacate Brarn’s eyes did he slowly removed his dress, left to stand only in his shift.

Immediately a flush came over the reaver’s face, his gaze leaving his captive’s face to hungrily stare at Gwri’s full breasts, now barely disguised by the thin material of the shift. With a voice more threatening than before, he said, “And the shift, that too.”

The time was now. Gwri found the ribbon at his neck, unknotted it, then pulled the opening wide to display creamy shoulders. Watching a bead of sweat form on the man’s forehead, he steeled his own nerves, and let go. With practiced speed, his hands reached for the combs that decorated his hair. However, he was not quick enough.

With a roar of anger, Brarn exploded from his seat and scooped up his axe to shout. “What foul trickery is this?”

Gwri was not given a chance to answer before that wicked axe hissed through the air to strike at a slender neck. No chance to dodge, yet he did not feel its slash, did not know if he lived or died. So as he watched Brarn wrench around due to the violence of the swing, he felt the wing points of the butterflies bite into his palms. And though Brarn stared for a time at the shards of metal that clanked to the stone floor, when he turned to gape at his expected victim, he saw Gwri waited. Quick as an adder, Gwri struck with his right hand and then with the left hand. Brarn dropped the handle of his axe, to join shards that remained of its shattered head, and clasped hands to sightless eyes as he howled his agony.

Yet it awoke no sympathy within Gwri`s heart. Dropping the dripping hair pins, he reached for the knife that had recently granted him freedom. With it, in turn, he granted Brarn freedom from his geis.

Revenge had been struck.

In wonder, Gwri reached to feel the delicate torc that had apparently saved his life. It had proved the only armour he needed.

His wonder proved short lived, for from the other side of the door came the sound of shouting and a hammer’s thunk against the thick wood. Victory would be short lived. As he accepted that trickery and chance would not save him this time, Gwri clothed himself and waited for Brarn`s brothers to break through the door.

An axe’s blade cut made the first hole, but then a great hammer widened it to allow faces to look through. Faces that grew angrier as they saw their leader dead upon the ground, his own dagger plunged into his chest. Yet just when it seemed the door could only withstand a few more strikes, a voice from behind them said, “What are we going to do? Kill her? Me, I’m glad he’s dead.”

“How can you say that, Brasil. He was our leader, our brother.”

“And his geis held us captive. No more. No longer must we follow the reaver’s road. Have we not already punished those who once held us in chains? Now the only chains that bind are of our own making?”

“But Morrigu, our mother, she...”

“Bah, Morrigu is no more our mother than an archer is to his arrow. She fired us at her target and forgot we existed. I no longer will be her arrow.”

Brasil’s words rang truly amongst his brothers. All of whom were tired of death, of each other, of life. As individuals, they turned from the damaged door and descended the stairs. Some stopped in their rooms, empty now that their newest brides had returned to Donn’s realm, to sleep or to be alone. Other continued to the bottom, out into the village, where waited a prior bride he had always loved.

itting cross-legged upon the bed, Gwri decided success felt empty. Too much of himself had he given for revenge that did not matter. It did not bring his parent`s back life, nor had his Grandmother lived to see it, instead they had only lost all their time together. And he had lost himself.

Who was he now? No longer was he Gwri, but neither could he be Oriana, for he did not know her.

What would he do? He had given up his past in the pursuit of this meaningless vengeance. And without a past, how could he make a future?

He found himself wondering if it would have been better to fail. To have convinced him to step over the edge of the cliff, to have not let what no longer existed stop his plunge.

It was from this contemplation that the sound of knocking distracted him. Expecting the return of one of Brarn’s brothers, Gwri was surprised to see the face of a handsome young man through the hole in the door, mischievous eyes twinkling at what he saw.

“Want to let me in?”

Gwri did not know whether to scream or to yank the knife from Brarn’s chest and attack the new arrival. But he felt too tired for either act, instead he stood and unbarred the door.

“I’m surprised that everything actually worked?” the Goban Saor said, as he entered.

“You thought I would fail?”

“Well you have to admit that it was rather an intricate plan, with many points where failure seemed natural. But I’m honest and vain enough to admit that I do incredibly good work. Besides you definitely held up your end of the heavy lifting.”

“Why?”

“Why the revenge? Or why you?”

“Both.”

“As to the first, well I can now admit my reasons are rather petty. See I built this tower for Brarn, but instead of the two hundred barrels of ale and one hundred cows he was to pay for my work, he only gave me one hundred and seventy five barrels and ninety cows. Looking about now, I likely didn’t even deserve that much. It’s rather a grim place.”

“You mean to say that you prepared all this and made me endure your insanity, all for a few barrels of ale and some cows?”

“I was younger when it happened. My pride had been stung and I wanted revenge. But somewhere along the way my revenged changed into this amazing project with a life of its own. It challenged me like nothing else before.”

Flopping onto the bed, Gwri covered his eyes with an arm, and asked, “And why me?”

“Well that’s your fault.”

“What!” Gwri shouted, snapping upright into a seated position.

Nodding his head, the Goban Saor said, “Yes, it was you who sought out some faerie to help you decide what to do with your life. Well that’s me.”

“You thought I wanted to be turned into a female vengeance seeker?”

“Don’t be silly, that was just part of becoming my apprentice.”

“Your apprentice?”

“Of course my apprentice. You`ve already proven your dedication to a task. There’s much I can teach and have friends who can teach you more. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Look at me, do you think I wanted to look like this?”

“Umm, no?”

“Of course not, change me back.” Gwri said in demand.

“I wouldn’t even know where to start. You wouldn’t believe how much thought and work I invested into your appearance, though I have to admit, seeing you, that it was well worth effort.”

“You...”

“Although I do have an idea how to finish the job if you’re interested. That could our first project together.”

“You...”

“Besides it would do me a world of good to have such a pretty companion.”

“I wouldn’t let me touch me, you lech.”

“I know.” the Goban Saor said, gesturing for Gwri to calm down. “But everybody will expect that you do. And if there’s one thing I`ve learned about women, it’s that they`re competitive. Surely some other lovely will try to still me away from you. Reluctantly, I will surely give in.”

The man’s grin seemed impregnable. All Gwri could do was to flop back onto the bed, recover his eyes, and mumble. “I don’t think I like you.”

“But that’s only because we’ve just met.”