Baine and Fiachra compensate for my silence at table, keeping Eachan in good spirits and mindful of having his sister long lost now returned to him. It had occurred to me, on the walk with the Ceannmór back to Dun Dair, that I have no practical experience as a Fili.

As a destined Prince of the Lochlann, I was thoroughly educated on princely matters, from hawking and horseback riding to memorizing genealogies, reading stars, and composing tune and lyric. My schooling in the bardic arts was extensive, but I never served as a Fili in any official capacity. Among the Niafer, MacMorna was the tuath's Bard. I was considered a poet among the Fianna and the Craobh Sgàith, but neither are what a ceannmór would consider to be very highly esteemed bands.

No, I could not make a request for consideration as Eachan's Fili. At least not conventionally. In a perfect world, I would have been born for the station. At the very least, I would have served another king and won renown as far-reaching as Dun Dair. My only remaining course is to convince him myself, my only testimonial being my song.

As supper settles in our bellies and the light in the hearth is no greater than the gentle, haunting pulse of foxfire, I find the hall an idyllic scene. Our host, sated with venison and ale, sits back in his tall chair and retreats into his own musings, a smile upon his face. Fiachra has expired for the day and lies on a pelt by the fire, passed out drunk from cow's milk. My Ravenmay reclines on the rushes strewn about the floor, propped up on one arm. This is the opportunity I've needed. Without a word I take up my cruit and stand before my small audience.

Sired in the leafing season,
For whatever rhyme or reason
Came to Erin's shore.
Call him Cèudach Mòr.
At his core
Is treason.

First he plundered allies' cattle;
Second, freed his Rían's chattel;
By his lover spurned,
Scàthach's Feats he learned,
Ere he turned
To battle.

Years thereafter spent he warring,
Roving, thieving, drinking, whoring.
Down the river's course,
A currach for a horse.
Naught but force-
-ful oaring.

My Tragedy of Cèudach Mòr's verses are three nines long, and I thank the imbas forosnai for my trance-like utterances. It is a song from my own soul and a tale that nearly tells of my own tragic fate, for Cèudach Mòr does perish in the end. I do not reveal to Eachan or to Baine that this woeful character is myself. It is now the name I give to that wayward rover who for so many years ruled my life. As Amlaidh, I return to my true self, the poet-prince of the Lochlann who yearns for hearth and home.

With a final flourish upon the cruit-strings, I let the hall go quiet and await my lord's reception of the song. At the very least, I can expect hospitality for the remainder of the year, a ring or some other rich bauble. At best, I could be offered a permanent situation as Eachan's Fili and prove worthy of his sister's hand.