It's pure joy to watch Ciara and Aedan reacquaint themselves with their infant son. I share greedily in their dreamy bliss, which momentarily masks the gauntness of Ciara's cheeks and the new lines on Aedan's brow. And where is little Lann, their older boy? I glance around and scarcely recognize him when I find him, curled up in his father's brat near the fire. The last time I saw him, he was plump and sassy. Now he looks like the runt of the litter, skinny and pale.

Ciara's hollowed face. Aedan's furrowed forehead. Lann, sickly? One by one, these ugly truths bring me back to this world. Eventually I become aware that I can't remember the last time I ate anything. And there's no spitted meat roasting in the fire. The fire itself is a feeble flame, hardly fit for a festive occasion.

How long have we been gone from Magh Croimor? I can scarcely recall where we've been except for a few still vivid memories. The Huntress! The end of Usquener. And a bird's eye view of a forest and a hut, a witch's hut where I found Conall, at last.

Faolan steps into the firelight with an oddly heavy tread. Winter Mist returns with him but alone, walking straight into our midst as if she expected to be greeted as a queen. Sean is not here? While I mull over what this could mean, Winter Mist slows her confident stride and stops. She looks around at everyone, half-defiant, half-questioning, and stays very still. I see her blink at Faolan in an odd sort of trancey slow-motion.

He begins to speak. So, he's the chieftain now? What has happened to Becuma? Sean is missing, along with several others? Faolan blames Labraid for it all, and I don't even know the half of the misfortuntes that have befallen our tribe!

Labraid. Hearing that name again, a sudden rush of warmth and weakness rushes through me. Lasair. Once my lover. They chased her from Tara, along with the princess Moriath. I thought I could keep them safe. Shuddering, I recall Becuma's shrill whistle and the poet's shout of warning, then she was gone. That wretched Labraid, Faolan says! A few low growls echo this around the circle.

Indeed, what has become of them all? Indeed, what has become of everyone, including ourselves?

The joy is gone. I plop down heavily beside Ciara. Aedan has taken out his whetstone and is putting a fresh edge on his blade, a thirsty edge, a killing edge.

The raiding season is on us once again, later than usual, and with a darker purpose than ever.