How did I end up at Magh Croimor again, after I swore for the third time I'd never come back to this accursed plain? It was not by my own choice, believe me. The last thing I remember is trying to flee the clutches of the robber-hag Becuma who dragged me all the way from Magh Croimor to Tara in pursuit of the Princess Moriath and Labraid. I was supposed to meet the princess at Tara and she'd promised to lift the geis that banned me from carrying any sort of weapon. The outlaws ruined my chances, though, when they decided to take both Moriath and Labraid as hostages. There was a mad rush after them as they fled Tara. Becuma, hot on the scent of riches, threw me away as if I were nothing more than an apple peel and I was trampled under the hooves of the outlaw's stampeding steeds.

When I awoke, battered and barely alive, I was at Magh Croimor. Again. No one would ever tell me how I got here. One of the renegades must have taken pity on me, or more likely thought I might be valuable to somebody somewhere and took me with them. For a long time I lay at death's door. Becuma and another woman bound up my broken limbs, rubbed my wounds with a rancid smelling salve, and poured vile potions into me until finally, by Samhain, I was able to walk and talk again.

The other woman has no name. She is known only as "the wyrd one". She lives apart from the outlaw band, an outcast among outcasts, befriended only by Becuma. The others all avoid her as if she were a living curse. She is tiny as a child and skeleton thin with surprisingly silken hair that she wears like a cloak, all the way down to her ankles. One eye is blue, the other brown. She speaks in the language of wild things, all twitters, barks and grunts.

Through a hazy sequence of events, the wyrd one became my wife. She has slept by my side every night for as long as I can remember being here. She - and to a lesser extent, Becuma - saved my life. I have yet to discover why.

On this day, the first storm of winter is roaring around our little hearth, if you can call it a hearth. We live in a tiny cave on a hill overlooking the Plain of the Great Heart. No one visits but Becuma, yet I am quite sure the rest of them know I am here. Every day I wonder what became of my wicked horse Amadan. I wonder if I'll ever be able to ride again with my trampled and crookedly mended legs, healed or not. I wonder if I'll ever tell stories for princes and kings again, or if I'll pass the rest of my days here, or if ever I'll see again any of the ones I once loved...

She takes my hand and looks into my eyes now. Can she see what troubles are brewing in my head, what sorrows darken my heart? I can almost believe she can. Then she must know I will leave someday.

But not today. The first storm of winter is howling, and I may as well take my little wild one into my arms and forget about all else...for now...