My whole self now lives in my right arm. It is impossible to think of anything else. If my concentration wanders, I lose control and my fist punches the air or my fingers splay in angry spasms. Blue veins stand out in thick cords pulsed with fire. I entrust the reins to my left hand only. Awkward, but I cannot trust my right arm to do as I command.

Preoccupied, I only understood a little of the talk at the Sea Hag. Nion's cousin Huath is taking us to meet another outlaw band at the Laigin border, south of Inver Colpa. They've already laid bait for the Niafer search party to follow and fall into another ambush. Then we'll all go northward again and take Inver Colpa. We're promised a share of the rich spoils.

When my strong arm is released with sword in hand, it will be a lethal force unlike any warrior's weapon since Lugh went to battle. I will be as invincible as any god.

Another surge of pain shoots up my arm as we arrive at the border camp at the edge of boglands. A fire burns fearlessly where a large number of horses and men openly gather, not more than a stone's throw from the road. Roasting meat wafts a welcome.

We leave the horses in the care of the Toad Witch, who offers to take first watch. I glance at her and quickly look away. The silver glow of the moonlight is on her skin, her eyes are flicker in the dark. That's enough to scare off any intruder. Sean dawdles and hangs back to keep his wife's company. The rest of us go to the fire.

Huath is greeted with affectionate curses and hand-slaps all around. He makes introductions and Datho, chief of this band, comes to meet us. He searches out Hadaig first, grasping his arms as if he were a long lost brother. 'Daig's slaying of the Niafer war chief was celebrated event among this tribe. He is a hero here since he worked their revenge for them, killing the chieftain who cut down Domnall, youngest son of their royal line. Now Datho's fondest wish is to make Inver Colpa his own since his brother's blood was spilled on that land.

My arm flies up in a rage at mention of battle. I pretend to be saluting Datho and strain to tuck my rebellious limb back under my leine.

Datho gives me a strange look but keeps smiling with wicked glee. By his side lurks a shadow of a man in druid's garb whose name Datho says is Morann.

Again my arm flies forth, this time pointing a finger. The strength of the movement carries me forward a few steps. What's this? Following the pointed finger, I spy a woman sprawled near the fire. A mass of tangled red-gold hair cushions her head. Her face is pale and calm. She lies on her back, staring up at the moon. Too pale, too calm. I think she must be dead. Then I see a mist of breath rising from her lips. Her eyes are open but who knows what she sees. Obviously she's been given some sort of potion.

How different the Rian of Niafer looks now, compared to when I last saw her at the Tara fair, when she stared through me with those owlish eyes and spoke my name.

So! This is the bait for the trap. Surely this means war.

We feast and drink and sometime before dawn, I fall into a restless, nightmarish sleep.