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ready for a fight.”
    Uncle Sceolán looked thoughtful. “They could quietly get rid of you both while you’re in their hands. Catch your Father Murray unaware. Wouldn’t take much to make it look like you killed the priest. Problem solved. No need for inconvenient truths or admissions of guilt. Everything back to the way it was. Simpler.”
    “I really wish you wouldn’t say things like that.”
    “Aye, well.” Uncle Sceolán hefted his spear. “I been at the warring a long time, you know?”
     
    Taking a route parallel to the Ballynahatty lane and through fallow hay fields, Liam followed Sceolán to the northeast edge of the Giant’s Ring—the agreed-upon meeting place. It consisted of a flattened hill with a four-meter-high earthen ridge running in a two hundred-meter circle around the top. The grass was worn bare around the inside and close to the ancient ridge where the local people had held horse races in the 1800s. According to Uncle Sceolán, the Fey still did so. Near the center was a small tomb formed from standing stones. The Ring was bordered on the outside by a few trees, the hay field, a car park to the east, and a small but dense wood to the south. The place fairly vibrated with power. Liam could feel the tingling of it radiating through his feet and his skin, and the air grew heavier the closer he came.
    Shouts echoed across the empty field.
    “Sounds like they started without us,” Liam said.
    “We’d best get there before the fighting breaks out.” Uncle Sceolán winked. “Didn’t think Cathal was going to lose that bet this soon.”
    Trotting to the northern-most entrance, Liam passed through the break in the earthen bank. A camp table was set up near the rock tomb and a few papers rested in a neat arrangement on top. At the moment both table and papers had been abandoned and men were shouting and gesticulating at one another to the side. It took Liam several seconds to spy Father Murray in the cluster of modern Catholic priests surrounding two ancient Irish warriors. He was standing in the middle of the verbal fray with his hands held out as if shielding the two Fey warriors behind him. In spite of the stated agreement of no more than three representatives to each side, Liam counted no less than twelve heavily armed priests in addition to Father Murray and the Bishop.
    Fucking typical, that, Liam thought.
    However, it was obvious that the Fey had kept their word. Liam’s father, Bran, stood at the center of the mob, back to back with a member of the Fianna Liam didn’t recognize. Liam wasn’t sure who Father Murray thought he was attempting to protect—whether it was the Church’s assassins or the Fey warriors. Either way, Liam had the feeling Father Murray was going to end up on the bad side of it. Sometimes Liam wondered if the priest had any sense at all.
    He attempted to make himself heard over the shouting. “Have you signed the truce already?”
    Father Murray turned. “Where have you been? I began to think you’d changed your mind.”
    “Needed to clear my head. Went for a short run. Got turned around on the way back, but Uncle Sceolán set me to rights,” Liam said. “Although, it would’ve been easy enough to find you by the ruckus. It’s a wonder the Fallen, the British Army or the RUC haven’t turned up too.” Not that Liam had much faith in the RUC. The Royal Ulster Constabulary operated more like bully boys than police in Liam’s experience.
    One of the priests burst from the group surrounding the Fey. He was short and had an ugly scar across the bridge of his nose. Limping, he drew a long dagger. Liam remembered the Kalashnikov in time to bring the rifle to bear. Several priests scurried out of the way. Others shouted warnings. There came the clatter of weapons being drawn as the others prepared for the fight. Spotting the rifle at last, the limping priest came to an abrupt stop. “Demon!”
    “Evening, Father Dominic,” Liam said. “How’s the