With a snort, I shake off Lasair's grip, carelessly flicking the blade alongside the poet's long nose. He hops backwards to just barely escape the slash that would surely ruin his handsome face forever. My other hand still holds the reins of his horse, now mine.

"This poet will be our guest for a time," I announce in my chieftain voice, defying Lasair to go against me. "Methinks he has much more to tell us about the Princess Moriath. What price she has promised him for the reply of Labraid, what riches can be found in her rath, how many warriors guard the keep, and - ah, how much she would pay us for the safe return of this messenger especially if he carries back an answer to her!"

Aedan slips behind the poet and pats him searchingly all over, from throat to shins. "I am not armed, my geis does not allow me weapons!" the man protests.

My cousin chuckles, dangling the findings of his cunning grabbery. A plump little leather pouch, a silver pendant on a slender chain, a golden arm band and what looks like a strip of stitchery from a woman's leine. These are tossed down at my feet. As if by magic, suddenly the poet's arms are bound behind his back.

"Take the stitchery to your wife. We'll game for the rest tonight! Now, poet, does yer horse have a name? And what are ya called?" Brotherly-like, I give him a whack across the back. "Talkin' is your art, is it? Speak to us now and don't stop till we know everything we want to know."

A few of the men wander off, since its near dark and we've had nothing to eat yet today. Aedan gives me a nod that says he'll be back for the gaming. The ones who stay close in like a pack of wolves. Someone brings out a whetstone and starts sharpening their knife. A skin of ale appears and passes quickly among us.

The poet eyes the aleskin longingly. He knows he won't be getting a taste of anything except maybe his own blood. As we all settle in around him, off to one side I notice Lasair slouching down and letting her hood fall to cover her face. She is more of a mystery than ever now. A Connacht princess has sent her a lover's message to the name she uses as her man-disguise. Such secrets are better left unknown, except for whatever she might give us for this hostage - dead or alive - or perhaps two hostages, the poet and the long lost lover who calls herself Labraid.

"Just a wee drop to wet my thirst?" the poet is croaking pitifully. "I cannot speak for long with such a dry mouth."

At that moment, the aleskin passes to me. I take a swig, lean forward and spit it into his face. "There you have it. Now - sing!"

He looks about to weep. His tongue cleans his whiskers, gleaning the wee drop. "My horse is Amadan. I am Summer Isle. Princess Moriath has promised me nine times the silver she gave me in that pouch when I bring her Labraid's reply. I saw no riches in her rath. It was desolate and bare, nothing but a stone on a stone, and no one else besides herself. No guards, no servants, no kindred. She may have hidden treasures, as she gave me silver and promised more, but I saw nothing of value in her house, nothing at all. It was like a cave, barren and cold, with mere embers on the hearth."

Grumbling and rumbling goes around our circle. No one believes him. I lay my knife hard against his cheek. "You're lying! Tell the truth or I'll have a slice, then another -"

"It's true, I swear!" he begs. "We were to meet at Tara over Imbolc, when she expected me to have a reply for her. You can see her for yourself if you go there."

Summer Isle sighs and says nothing more.

"He's sealed his own doom," I mutter to meself. Looking past the miserable heap of poet, I spy a shadow coming across the way. A shadow of my sweet sidhe wife, looking very dark and heavyladen with sadness.