by S C McGrath
Soon back in the hall, Keelin walked lightly and agilely, making her way between the tables and sensing many eyes upon her. Before she reached him, Brian was on his feet and striding toward her. Keelin stopped.
“I was hoping to find you this evening,” she said, smiling up at him.
Brian bowed and took her offered hand in his, searching her face. Then he brought her hand to his lips and a thrill ran through Keelin. The kiss was lingering and his lips felt warm against the back of her hand. Quite involuntarily, Keelin moved closer to him.
Brian straightened back up and reluctantly released her hand with a slight frown. “I thought perhaps you were an apparition . . . it has been a strange night. I felt your presence, heard you earlier.” He laughed and shook his head, studying Keelin once more, his eyes sweeping over her. “You are beautiful.” He lightly traced the line of her jaw with his fingertips. “Curse all these prying eyes,” he said.
“Will you dance with me tonight?” asked Keelin, her eyes bright.
Before Brian could answer, Ruaidhrí reached them and, throwing his burly arm around Brian’s shoulders, exclaimed, “I know, Brian, that Keelin here is the loveliest lass in the hall, but we have work to do and wooing her will have to wait until later. Already the Fianna are assembling on the hill of Tara, their masks and torches at the ready.”
Sure enough, Keelin noted that the hall was slowly emptying, young men from every table excusing themselves, some happily boisterous, others intoxicated and combative, and all formidable, deadly.
Keelin said farewell to Ruaidhrí before turning to Brian. “Remember, I wish to dance only with you.”
“That will be a trick, dear Keelin,” said Ruaidhrí. “We will all be wearing masks, and you will not know Brian from the rest of us. And,” he remarked over his shoulder as he walked away, beckoning Brian to follow, “I can assure you, there will be many wishing to dance with you this evening, looking as bewitching as you do.”
“Pay Ruaidhrí no heed,” said Brian.
“I will know you, whatever your disguise,” Keelin said hurriedly to Brian, noticing Pádraig and Seán approaching. “And if you dance with anyone else this evening, I shall never forgive you.”
“Why would I ever dance with anyone but you, my beautiful witch?” Grinning, Brian lightly brushed Keelin’s cheek with the back of his hand, then turned and followed Ruaidhrí out of the hall.

Keelin breathed a sigh of relief as she made her way surreptitiously back to the anteroom and the dark alcove, thinking that tonight was the first time she had ever been happy she was small. Wishing to speak to no one after Brian left, Keelin quickly slipped behind three imposing Fianna warriors as they made their way out of the hall, avoiding the necessity of having to make idle conversation with anyone. Reaching the alcove, she hastily retrieved her Dagda cloak from the shadows and vanished as easily and silently as she had appeared. In a matter of seconds, she was safely on the firm ground of Tara, looking toward the hill of Tlachtga.
Keelin purposely chose to stand some distance from the crowds assembled on Tara, watching Tlachtga expectantly as the shadows of dusk lengthened. As soon as the sun had dipped below the horizon, all fires throughout Eire were extinguished, symbolizing the end of the year. Tara was cloaked in darkness and the crisp air of nightfall brushed against Keelin’s cheeks. She shivered slightly, as much from excitement as from the cold. She then stood mesmerized as she watched torch after torch lit at Tlachtga.
The priests and priestesses of The Dagda, standing close to each other and holding the burning torches high, formed a circle around the unlit pyre. Breaking the circle’s link and walking slowly, they spiraled out from the pyre forming three concentric rings and creating fluid, undulating waves of brilliant orange and yellow light. Keelin felt irresistibly drawn to the flames and to Tlachtga, as if some powerful, atavistic instinct were taking hold of her. One by one the torches were extinguished until only a single torch burned against the black sky. Fearghus, the high priest of The Dagda, circled Tlachtga’s pyre, igniting the dried kindling at its base every few strides. Once the bonfire was blazing high into the heavens, a roar of celebration erupted on the hill of Tara. The Fianna warriors, each disguised in a mask resembling one of the mighty beasts of Eire, lit a line of three pyres, all of which quickly rivaled the bonfire at Tlachtga. As far as Keelin could see, other fires were lit, from distant hill to distant hill, until all of Eire was alight with the flames of rebirth.
No sooner had the bonfires on Tara been lit than the music began. Pipes and drums, fifes and horns filled the air with a martial beat as the warriors danced round the pyres and one by one threw their torches into the flames. Dressed in black, the men looked demonic—seemingly half man, half beast—silhouetted against the conflagration. Keelin’s feet were already tapping, keeping time to the beat, and she moved closer to the bonfires, joining the revelers who were also caught up in the rhythmic cadence of the drums.
Suddenly, the music stopped and the warriors’ voices rang out, chanting a tribute to the dead and calling upon them to join in the celebration. Keelin was sure she could hear Brian’s voice and she stood on her tiptoes, trying to spot him. When the music resumed, the harps, pipes, and drums played a lively reel, and Keelin began to dance, abandoning all caution and reserve, an elfin beauty who sprang into the air as if she had wings.
As it turned out, Keelin did not have to look for Brian. It seemed she had been dancing only moments when he was beside her, his arm about her waist, pulling her close. Keelin knew instantly it was Brian, both from the boldness with which he held her and the intensity of emotion that sparked between them. When Keelin saw that Brian wore the mask of a wild boar, she laughed, happy he had chosen the visage of that beast above all others. Then they were dancing together and everything else faded away into a blur of light and sound and motion, all sense of time vanishing as they were swept up in the magic of the night and each other.
It was only when the music stopped abruptly once more that the spell was broken. Momentarily bemused, Brian instinctively put his arm around Keelin. Quickly, though, Brian realized what was about to take place.
“The Fianna will now light the remaining three bonfires. Come,” said Brian, leading Keelin by the hand toward the unlit pyres. Stopping at a place where Keelin would have an unobstructed view of the spectacle, Brian lightly grasped her shoulders in his hands and ordered, “Now stay here while I help light the fires. I should not want to search for you again in these crowds.”
Keelin raised her chin defiantly, her natural impishness resurfacing. “I might wait, but only if you hurry back.”
“Did I ever tell you that you are a mighty pain in the arse?” Brian said as he turned to join his fellow Fiann.
“I do not believe that you have,” called out Keelin, “though I have thought as much and worse of you many times.”
Keelin watched as Brian headed swiftly toward his comrades, all of whom held unlit torches at the ready. When Brian joined them, the warriors divided into three groups, each approaching one of the blazing bonfires. As the warriors thrust their torches into the flames, the horns sounded and the drums rolled. Holding the glowing torches high above their heads, the Fianna shouted a salute to the gods and marched toward the unlit pyres that formed a line opposite the blazing ones. As each new bonfire was lit, a roar erupted from the crowd, anticipating the ritual that would follow. Quickly the new bonfires raged, forming a narrow passage between the walls of fire. One by one, the warriors danced through the fiery gauntlet and the crowd went mad, chanting, singing, and urging men amongst them to join the Fianna in the age-old ritual.
A man toward the front of the crowd took the hand of a lovely young woman standing next to him, kissing her soundly on the lips and pulling her toward the flames. The crowd erupted again as the two started their run through the passage, the man holding his frightened yet elated sweetheart close to him.
Keelin could barely contain herself as she watched, shout
ing praises to the bold as they dashed through the passage, jeering and taunting those less willing to brave the flames. When she saw Brian approaching her, Keelin did not hesitate. She ran to him and, grabbing one of his hands in both of hers, pulled him back to the fire. Brian needed no encouragement and they danced between the fiery walls, Keelin bouncing and twirling, heedless of the burning embers cast out by the flames and Brian dancing right behind her, shielding his willful, exuberant lass as best he could. When they emerged safely with nary a singe, Brian put his arm around Keelin’s shoulders and led her through the crowd, beyond the bright light of the bonfires to a shelter of oaks that stood midway down the hill. Pulling off his mask and dropping it to the ground, he abruptly scooped her up, his arms locked just below her hips, and carried her toward a large oak tree. Keelin laughed delightedly, grabbing for the sleeves of his shirt to steady herself. Brian set her down on a horizontal bough of the oak, where she sat nearly at eye level with him.
“Now this is as it should be,” Keelin said, smiling contentedly. She unfastened the clasp of her cloak and let it fall away from her shoulders.
“I knew you would be pleased.” Brian took her face in his hands and gently kissed her lips. Dropping his hands from her face, Brian ran his fingertips along her pale skin, tracing the neckline of her dress, his hand trembling slightly. When his fingers reached the visible tip of her scar he stopped and, lowering his head, kissed the scar with infinite care. Keelin could feel his warm breath on her skin. The tender intimacy of that simple kiss bespoke of a shared memory, both cherished and enduring.
Keelin sighed happily, remembering, and ran her fingers through Brian’s wavy black hair. “I was very angry with you that day. You were being particularly insufferable.”
Brian laughed in mock affront. “You were angry with me? I wanted to wring your neck. Had you not been along, Séamus and I would have hunted the wild boar with Eirnín and Conall. Instead, we were forced to keep watch over you, an almost impossible task.” Brian hesitated, then added, “You gave me a horrible fright.”
“Poor Béar, he never proved to be much of a hunting hound,” admitted Keelin.
“Singularly worthless is a more apt description,” said Brian, and they both laughed. He leaned toward her and they kissed again, their lips barely touching. It was at that moment they heard the laughter of another couple approaching the oak grove. Brian cursed, taking a deep breath. Keelin giggled and playfully kissed his cheek, whispering, “If you are agreeable to a walk of perhaps a mile or two, I know where we can be alone.”
“I welcome the walk, for I want you all to myself,” murmured Brian into Keelin’s ear as he gently lowered her to the ground, taking her hand in his. The two, hand in hand, left the shelter of the oaks and walked down the hill.

CHAPTER twenty-four

he spring grasses in the highland pasture were knee high and lush. The footing was firm, though occasionally rocky under the cattle’s hooves, with the bogs of the lowlands left far below. The predawn sky was a mosaic of stars and promised a cloudless day. It was cold on the mountain but a warm breeze occasionally wafted through the air, as if heralding the miracle of rebirth. The winter had been long and hard, darkness and frigid air hanging over Eire and its barren fields like a death shroud. Yet even then, nascent life abounded. Safely hidden in soil beneath the frozen ground lay the seeds of spring, waiting for warmth and light.
Déaglán listened intently and strained his eyes, hoping to detect any unusual sound or movement in the shadows. He sat on a rough cowhide and leaned against the trunk of a large fir tree. Beside him lay a young herdsman fast asleep, his deep breathing rhythmic and peaceful. Most of the cattle were also asleep, some lying down, others standing quietly with their heads hanging low. A few were already grazing contentedly, including the lead cow, a bell hanging from a rope around its neck. They had been brought up to the pasture the day before without benefit of wolfhounds or even cattle dogs. Déaglán had come upon the small herd in the early afternoon and had cursed the fool who sent the herdsman up to the pasture alone. He was little more than a boy and would have been defenseless against an attack by wolves or men. With the spring had come cattle raids and the isolated highland herds were the most vulnerable.
Déaglán feared it was only a matter of time before one of these raids became deadly and a battle ensued between belligerent clans. Eire’s unity was tenuous at best, and with each passing day of this unnatural peace, its chances for survival diminished. Agricola would not invade before summer; Deirdre had brought Déaglán the news when last they met. The winter that had ravaged Eire was similarly harsh in Britannia, and Agricola’s army would need the spring to prepare for the invasion. Fionn and his chieftains also needed the spring to prepare for the defense of Eire, but all would be for naught if war broke out among the clans before Agricola’s army even reached the island’s shore.
Déaglán’s disquiet was heightened by his failure to apprehend and silence the spy. The elusive devil had stayed just out of reach, winning the game of cunning and wits thus far. Two of the spy’s dispatches had reached Agricola before the winter storms rolled in. Deirdre confirmed the general knew both of the chieftains’ vote to unite and that Fionn was in command of Eire’s warriors. Agricola had not yet learned of Fionn’s defensive strategies or his battle plan, and, even in Eire, only Conall and Niall were privy to their details, having helped Fionn develop them.
Now, with the invasion looming, all of the chieftains and their seconds would have to be briefed. That meant it was likely the traitor, whoever he may be, would learn enough to share damaging intelligence with Agricola’s spy. The element of surprise would be lost and so too would any hope of victory for Eire’s warriors. Time was of the essence. With calmer seas, a dispatch could easily reach Agricola before his army left Britannia. The traitor must be unmasked and the spy silenced—now. Déaglán knew he should, at this moment, be pursuing them both. Instead he was sitting in a highland pasture watching over a young herdsman and his cows. Protecting one foolish boy would not save Eire, thought Déaglán grimly, disgusted with himself and his sentimentality.
Perhaps Deirdre’s latest news might shed some light on the traitor’s identity. Déaglán was to meet Deirdre at Tara in two days’ time. He shook his head and smiled in the dark, thinking of Deirdre and her conspirators, Nuala and Keelin. They were splendid sorceresses who had become critical to the defense of Eire. Deirdre did not detail the nature of her powers to him and Déaglán did not ask, though he had surmised most. Again he smiled, remembering the day he first saw her. Just thinking of Deirdre made him feel better; even when apart, she mesmerized him and gave him hope. He relaxed and watched as a faint glow appeared in the east and he heard the boy stir next to him.

Déaglán’s horse trod along the muddy road, carefully stepping on firmer ground where river rocks had been laid like cobblestones. Déaglán would not reach Tara until early afternoon; he was impatient to arrive but dared not go faster. The road had been empty save for an occasional farmer’s wagon. Still, he could not enjoy the peaceful isolation of the day. He looked up when he heard the loud honking of geese flying in formation overhead, marveling at how graceful they looked—a marked difference to their waddling gait on land. When his gaze returned to the road ahead, he was startled to see Deirdre standing alongside it, not ten paces away. She wore her Dagda cloak of rich royal blue, its hood down. Her fair hair shone in the sunlight, with most of it swept back in a bejeweled clasp. Her pale skin was clear and her lips were curved into a bewitching smile. Déaglán was captivated, wondering how Deirdre always looked so elegant in the most rural and rough of places.
“Your sudden comings and goings are most disconcerting,” said Déaglán, jumping down from his horse and kissing Deirdre soundly on the lips, encircling her in his arms. “We were to meet this afternoon, though I welcome the sight and feel of you now.”
“I could wait for you no longer,
as I have important tasks elsewhere. Here is as good as anywhere to give you news, my love.” Deirdre’s eyes were soft with tenderness. She glanced around and frowned in dismay. “Well, perhaps not, for there is no comfortable place to sit. It seems we must stand.”
“No matter. What news do you have?”
“First, rest assured. Agricola still knows nothing of Fionn’s battle plans and has not received a dispatch since the fall. In truth, he fears his spy may have come to grief.”
“I hope his fears will soon be realized. Has there been any mention of Eire’s traitor, by name or clan?” Déaglán had asked Deirdre this same question each time they met, only to be disappointed. Still, he could not help but ask again.
“Unfortunately, no. I do have good news, however. Agricola received a dispatch from the emperor, Domitian, denying reinforcements. That will leave the Romhanach in Britannia vulnerable if Agricola invades Eire with his existing forces. Keelin’s and my efforts were quite successful with Domitian, though we had hoped he would veto the invasion outright. It is possible, even without the veto, Agricola may still abandon his plans to invade.”
“Agricola will not abandon his plans. Only Domitian’s veto or Agricola’s death will halt the invasion.” Déaglán, frustrated and angry by Deirdre’s apparent naiveté, added, “Agricola is a general. He leads armies, he conquers, and he subjugates. All of your efforts will not change who he is and what drives his soul.”
“You sound like Keelin,” said Deirdre with the slightest reproach in her voice. “Indeed, Agricola’s soul is that of a conquerer. I acknowledge as much. Nonetheless, one must first do all one can to prevent bloodshed. Our efforts have proved wanting and yes, Agricola will invade Eire.” Deirdre looked at Déaglán, her eyes now full of sorrow. “Many will die when Agricola’s army lands on Eire’s shore. Young, strong, brave souls. How can I rejoice, even if our warriors are victorious? I would not be true to my vows as a priestess of The Dagda if I did not do all within my power to prevent such a tragedy.”