I find Doran just where I expected to find him, alone and slouched in a drunken stupor against the very back wall of the alehouse. He was propped up behind a wall of empty cups like some demented warlord guarding a midden-rath. At first I thought he was dead. There was a rat snuggled in his lap, nibbling on some crumbs, and another perched on his shoulder with its scabby tail draped affectionately around Dorna's neck.

"So you've ruined my fun. Unless the Crom Dubh men done him in before the drinks did!" We glare at each other with equally beady eyes. Doran stirs and growls at the sound of my voice.

"Lashhhh-air."

With the flat of my sword, I knock the rat off his shoulder. The other one scuttles away. I could have killed Doran ten times by now. After his moment of rousing, he's dead to the world again, drooling down his greasy beard. I don't know why but I have too much respect for the property of the alehouse to kill him right here and now. No one would notice or care. He might just rot where he fell.

Instead I lift him up by his shoulders and push him through the maze of unspeakable filth and obscenities until we are outside. I consider merely dumping him in the pond. It would be a fitting death for him to strangle slowly on the mucous slime. I wanted bloodshed though.

So I drag him up the slopes. The night is pitch dark with no moon, perfect for murder. I stumble over the rocks and climb until we're at the top, overlooking the settlement. There I lay him down and sit quietly for awhile, thinking of life, death and what it all means, if anything at all. There's a bright flash somewhere on the other side of the village that reminds me of Baine, for some reason. I feel a strange chill and throw my hood up over my head.

At the same time, Doran rolls over, as if he felt the chill too. "Ma-a-a-a," he kicks his legs and bleats, like a grotesque lamb.

"You had a mother?" I have to laugh. Lazily I reach for my sword, smiling and thinking of lambs going to slaughter on Beltaine. Fiachra will not be one of them. Nor will I! I press the blade to Doran's throat.

He opens his red streaked eyes. His hand gropes for his dagger and finds nothing. I took it before we left the alehouse. I always admired that dagger. Now it's mine.

Surprisingly, Doran speaks up. "Sure I had a mother. Dinna you?" The pimply lump on his throat bobs up and down under the press of my sword's tip. Red droplets fall.

This is not the way I work. I kill cleanly and quickly. Torture is not something I enjoy. Doran brings out the dark side of me. I ease up on the sword, planning to draw back and when he least expects it, drive it straight through the hollow where the pulse throbs at the front of his neck. "Sure we all had mothers," I grin down at him, pondering how his miserable life will soon be cut short. But before that, I have to ask him, "And who was your mother, so I can tell her how you died?"

"D-d-died?" he stammers and bites own tongue. He tries and fails to sit up. He's weak and dizzy as a newborn fawn, unable to find his legs. He squirms and gathers something from deep inside himself, the last vestige of his putrid soul. Proudly he raises his head and spits it into my face. "Tell Moriath of Cruachu, then, that her son got murdered and wi' no weapon to 'fend himself!"

"Moriath of -" I choke on the words that hit me so hard they throw me backwards a few steps. The sword drops from my hand. I stare at Doran and suddenly see through all his cloakings. It takes my breath away.

He springs to his feet and makes a grab for my sword. He nearly steals it but he's still too drunk. I snatch it up and stand glaring at him in disbelief. Glaring at him. My brother!

"I can't kill you," I mutter. "My mother told me about you. You were stolen from her when you were only five summers old. It was the same summer I was born. I'm your sister."

Doran brays with what might be laughter. "You lie!"

"Then how do I know this?" I challenge him. "You have a scar on one side of your arse where her favorite hound bit you."

My newfound brother goes from a flushed red to stone pale. His eyes narrow as he looks right through me much like I looked through him a moment ago, seeking and finding a family resemblance.

Arm in arm we stumble down the slopes together and back into the alehouse.