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in this grand fortress I shall doubtless be a frequent guest at Cashel.’
    Fidelma fought madly to think of some polite, neutral response.
    Thankfully, at that moment, Eadulf appeared. He greeted Drón and Ailill briefly before addressing Fidelma. ‘Apparently Muirgen is in the courtyard with Alchú. Gormán has taken our bags down.’
    Drón’s smile was thin. ‘So you are both leaving Cashel? It sounds important, this commission of your brother’s.’
    ‘A matter concerning the law,’ Fidelma said briefly, not answering his implied question. ‘So if you will excuse us …?’ Without waiting for a response she turned, with Eadulf following her, and made her way down the flight of stone steps that descended into the main courtyard.
    As they neared the body, Eadulf whispered: ‘I am afraid I don’t like Drón any more than you do. What is it about people that makes you know instinctively that you cannot trust or make friends with them?’
    Fidelma glanced at him and sighed. ‘I feel sorry for my young cousin. Ailill is made to follow Drón about as if he were a servant.’
    ‘He is over the age of choice,’ replied Eadulf, ‘and is supposed to be Drón’s bodyguard. He seems a pleasant enough young man, anyway. I am sure if he felt things were bad, he would simply leave Drón’s service. The choice is up to him.’
    Muirgen, the nurse, was waiting to bid them goodbye, holding little Alchú by the hand. In spite of their journey only being a short one, Fidelma had insisted that Muirgen be prepared, just in case they could not return for a long period. For a few moments they paused to say goodbye to Alchú, who stood with a stubborn look on his features, for he knew what this ritual portended. The set of the little boy’s face seemed to say that he would not give way to the welling unhappiness he felt. Eadulf still experienced guilt at seeing his son clinging tightly to the hand of Muirgen.
    Fidelma was about to say her farewells when she noticed that Dúnliath had joined them. The girl’s smile was apologetic as usual.
    ‘Are you going riding so early, lady?’ she asked, gazing round at them in wonder. ‘Or is it some hunt? My father was talking about a hunt earlier.’
    ‘Not a hunt, lady,’ replied Fidelma, hoping she would not pursue the question. ‘I have duties to fulfil as a dálaigh .’
    ‘Of course, I forget that you are so clever,’ sighed the girl without guile. ‘I am not clever at all. On a day such as this, I prefer to sit in the garden and listen to tales of wonder and magic and love. I have found that one of your bards knows the tale of the courtship of Étain, a beautiful tale of immortal love. My mother was named Étain. Do you know the story, lady?’
    ‘I have heard it,’ replied Fidelma irritably.
    ‘Étain the wife of Midir was turned into a fly and—’
    ‘I know the story!’ Fidelma repeated. ‘I am glad that you have found someone to tell it to you. But I must depart immediately.’
    The apologetic smile spread. ‘Of course, I am sorry to delay you. It is so wonderful being here in Cashel that I …’
    Fidelma felt the girl would have gone on chattering obliviously and so, in spite of feeling guilty, she simply turned away. On the far side of the stone-flagged courtyard, Gormán and a warrior called Enda stood with four horses already saddled. With them was the farmer, Tóla, seated on a patient ass. Rider and beast looked incongruous next to the horses, especially next to Fidelma’s favourite mount, Aonbharr. An ancient breed, he was short-necked with upright shoulders and a body with slight hindquarters and a long mane. The beast recognised Fidelma as she came into the courtyard for it gave a slight whinny and stamped one of its forefeet on the stone flags, causing sparks to fly. Fidelma called it ‘the Supreme One’, after the magical horse of the pagan Ocean God, Manannán Mac Lir, which could run across land or sea and not be killed by man or immortal. Enda