Lorcan's swift, strong horse carries Lasair easily along the road to Inver Colpa. Her thoughts, however, hover behind her in Tara.

She promised Lorcan to contact the brehons and obtain their help when she arrived at Tara. A promise she knew she would not fulfill. Lorcan assumed, from her tall and muscular frame, the weapons she carried, and the loosely fitting leine and breeks, that Lasair was a man. She did nothing to set him right. Secretly she rejoiced. It would keep things simple. The Brithem of Tara would not be so blindly assuming. One in particular would certainly recognize her. Lasair smiled coldly as she imagined what his face would look like if he saw her now. Alive and well.

Morann. How his words rang, how his voice sang. She shivered in the sunshine. Once more the rough ropes cut into her wrists and ankles. She felt the hopeless weight of the stone as it was tied round her neck. Then the bright summer's day went dark. The sour smell of the sack thrown around her was enough to smother her. Defiant, she filled her chest with air, knowing what would come next. Bound and heavy laden, Lasair was flung into the lough, into the deep blue waters that everyone said had no bottom.

(Neither gold nor silver would be accepted from one who lighted a fire before the lighting of the festival fire of Tara. They should be put to death.)

It was a mistake! A lie! Morann kindled that fire, not I! He loved me once. I did not love him.

"If you won't have me, you'll have no one else," he vowed.

Lasair shakes her head hard to drive away the black thoughts that buzz around her like a swarm of gnats. Her hands are slick as she tugs on the reins. The horse is happy to stop, at last. She reaches for the water pouch and takes a long drink. She pours some into her palm and washes her dust-sore eyes.

Refreshed, she looks down the road and wonders how much farther it is to Inver Colpa. What is that ahead? Three riders and a bull. And a jumble of shapes on the ground. More horses. Warriors!

She tucks loose strands of hair away under her head-wrap, thinking now only of the rich reward promised for the return of Dessel the prize bull of Cill Dara. Lasair's long legs squeeze the horse into motion again. Carefully, she wipes her damp palms on her trews. Then she rests one hand lightly on the grip of her sword as she approaches the confusing scene that blocks the road ahead.