I wake at dawn with dreams of Tara still playing in my head. These lingering visions are accompanied by a tune I do not recall hearing before. I whistle my composition as I wash my face, pack up the Brehon's things and prepare for the remainder of our boat ride back to the glorious city of Temhair.

A dream is a visit to the past, a peek at what's to come or a complete departure from reality, into a fanciful improbability. Mine was all three. I dreamt I stood within the Hall of Synods where, by Ruis and Flidais, I was inducted into a new fian, comprised of the greatest warrior poets in Eire, loyal to the Niafer. So rich in dress these fennidh were, you couldn't tell Milesian from Fir Bolg. Ah, how difficult it is to wake from such an honor!

I pack the last of the Brehon's bags into the boat, along with left-over strips of last night's venison, dried and salted. When Ruis rose, I know not, but she emerges from the hut presently. Even in traveling clothes, she possesses such elegant beauty, perching herself in her former position, at the prow. Was this woman ever a queen, herself? I wonder, silently.

The new day gives us a comfortable distance from the recent events at Inver Colpa, and they begin to blend into the canon of the great tales of the past. Ruis and I talk the rest of the way to Tara, taking turns sharing our own version of the tale of Cormar and Crom Cruach and revealing to one another gems from our unique perspectives. We also recall the tragedy of Ceirdwyn and how her name and memory may one day be as famous as Boann's. Inver Colpa is no stranger to tragedy.

Still, we arrive at Tara in mirthful conversation. After helping the Brehon from the boat, I hand her the package of venison. She accepts it with a "Go raibh maith agat, Ath-Caomhnóir," though the mundane words trip from the Brehon's tongue with a lilt of poetic eloquence. She steps away from the boat, deliberately leaving behind a sack. I expect to find the usual payment of grain or wine, but I find it to be something of much greater value. Unfolding the cloth reveals a spectacular harp! Newly strung, the instrument appears to be the mate of Dagda's own Uaithne! I bring the fine harp into the crook of my arm like a new-born babe, and I feel empowered to magically beckon Samhain, myself! Silently I bow before the Brehon; for once I'm lost for words. Yet the bow seems sufficient. Ruis smiles and turns toward the Shining City, whistling the tune from my dream.