Oileàn Samhradh gives a shout and thrashes about, erupting suddenly from out of his deep sleep. He must have had a bad dream and it is no wonder why. As I try to soothe him, I wonder what should be done with the elf-shot dart that was removed from the seannachie's shoulder. Should it be destroyed? Returned to the one who created it?

The poor seannachie speaks dismally of a bird song. A story he has heard, perhaps. Then, much to my dismay, he begins to weep aloud as if his heart is broken. Then I remember! Amleth told me that the wild changeling speaks only in the language of birds.

"Aye," I sigh, trying to comfort the lamenting seannachie as well as I am able. "I am sorry, cousin, but I don't know what to do for help. Hush now, the Keeper of the Ford is resting there by the hearth. When he wakens, we will go and see the Rian Flidais."

Summer Isle heaves a few deep breaths, gathering his wits about him again. He refuses the broth I offer. All he wants to do is stare gloomily into the fire. His fever is gone and he seems steadier on his feet, but his mood is heavy with unspoken despair.