There is nothing but wagging tongues moving in An Cailleach na Muir. My secret lover, the outlaw chieftain Nion, has gone away as I knew he would someday. I still watch for him to return. The raiding season seems to have passed us by, though, which is a blessing this year.

Strange talk goes 'round. Believe it or not, it's up to you.

The Rian's son is said to be a changeling. He has pointed ears and a tail. One or the other, or both. His father was the druid who was among her kidnappers. He was slain with one vicious stroke of a sword during the battle of the bog by the mysterious mercenary who some say was a man, others say was a woman, just as the Rian was about to be sacrificed to a dark swamp god.

The same night she gave birth and died, Fenian went mad. He rose from his seat in the Great Hall and fled screaming and ranting into the forest, after leaving his sword buried deep in the massive oaken door of the Hall. The sword is still there, untouched. They say whoever pulls it out will be heir to his madness, so it stays where he left it.

They also say that Dobhar roams the keep as a ghost. Several nights I thought I saw him myself, sitting in his old place at the warrior's table, scowling at everyone.

We have no Rian or Cean Mor. We have no war chief.

The best thing is that I prosper from the drinking that goes on, more drinking than has ever been done in Inver Colpa. I can scarcely keep enough mead and ale in the house.

And the summer and the rumors drone on.