Nowhere else in in the Five Kingdoms will you find more opulence or grandeur than in Temhair. There are timber halls and sacred stone rings beyond number; palisades so high as to pierce the heavens; patchwork fields of emerald and gold so rich their yield could feed all of the Isles; tall, noble trees of every ogham race; a hostage hostel where royal personages of every high family in Eire is waited upon hand and foot. At the Forradh, High King Cormac sups with his most trusted advisers, warriors, bards and druids. "Up into the bird's nest with you, lad!" an ox-shaped, raven-maned warrior shouts with a mouthful and beardful of greasy, gristly pork loin. At the same time he shoves a self-conscious, ginger-haired teenager up into the centre of the room. The 'bird's nest', a pillowy, hide-draped corner of the Forradh, is where the best poets, singers, and storytellers from across Eire and beyond come to entertain the Ard Rígh. Cormac sits amongst his sword-brothers, cousins, cattle-lords, and daughters. Each of his retinue has nine attendants, each of whom has his own nine servants. The lowliest of them is festooned with plaids, cloaks, and pins richer than a king anywhere else in all of Gaeldom. The red-headed Ruad, insecure and restive, hemmed a few times into his fist as he stumbled into the bird's nest. There, he swayed from side to side, shifting his weight to and fro as if he expected there to come projectiles at any moment. "Sing the one about the weasel!" comes a child's voice from across the hall. To Cormac's right, swallowed by a great oak chair crowned with antlers, sits a wee black-haired boy called Balbhuaidh na gCruithni, or simply Balwee. In his two tiny hands he grasps a great silver cuaich the size of his head. Over his shoulders is a rich, ebony mantle, fastened at one side by a silver brooch of the Hundred Battles. His feet stick out directly in front of him, nearly reaching the end of his seat. From his upper lip to his chin, he is stained with berry juice, and his little tongue vainly wags back and forth across his upper lip. Surrounding Balwee's impressive chair are clustered several young women and girls who coo, giggle, and fuss over Cormac's precocious and adorable little guest of honour. Ruad can barely make out Balwee from where he stands - a mop of black hair over two large, blue eyes peering over the feasting board is all he can see. The poet groans silently, thinking, How many times have I told you, Balwee? It's not a weasel; it's an otter! Banishing the little mischief-maker from his mind, Ruad closes his eyes, allows several moments for the hall to become silent, and then begins the tale of The Otter of Áth Fhirdiadh. "I can't hear you!" comes Balwee's penetrating voice through the hall, shattering the solemn mood woven by Ruad's words. Balwee's outburst gives his lovely coterie cause to flirt and giggle with the wee prince even more. Grinding his teeth, and closing his eyes again, Ruad takes a deep breath and begins a second time, only a little louder. He pauses when the clanging sound of Balwee's cuaich hits the floor and takes its time rattling its way to stillness. Later, during one of the more exciting bits of the tale, the red-haired poet has to stop so that he is not drowned out by Balwee's lion-yawn. Before Ruad is even close to finishing his tale, Balwee throws his hands into the air and exclaims "My turn!" The imp twists in his seat and slides his way out of the chair. Under the table he scurries to the bird's nest and stands directly in front of Ruad. "I can talk about the weasel, too!" he hollers with his arms still raised high above his head, his mouth still stained with violet juice. He gives his audience a wide, toothy grin, and continues. "I have two black ravens outside, one and two," Balwee starts, struggling to hold up two fingers, "and it's not nice to hit people sometimes." The laughter of Cormac's crowd is interrupted by the startling entrance of a royal guard in an olive-and-chestnut plaid, accompanied by a slack-jawed youth. "My lord!" the guard gravely bellows over the mirth. "There is a matter that requires the authority of the brehons and yourself. A freeman has just been slain by a brigand."