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with a wry little glance to heaven, since we won. Besides, it won't hurt to let the clergy have something good to say about me.
    Aedh lowered his head to look about his royal "conversation house"—stone walls to the small house, guarded door, slate roof on which no spy could perch. In short, thought the king, this was the one place in all Fremainn that he knew was secure from prying eyes or ears. The only other person in here with him just now was Fothad mac Ailin, and Aedh let the man wait and worry a bit longer before quoting sardonically:

    "The Church of the living God, let her alone,
    Waste her not.
    Let her right be apart, as best it ever was."

    He watched Fothad's slight wince, though at the same time Aedh caught the faintest glint of delight in the minister's eyes: the poet's involuntary joy that, no matter the circumstance, his words should have been so well remembered. Can't separate the poet from the man, can we? Aedh thought. Never could. He asked aloud, "Well?"
    "I had to compose the poem. You know that."
    "Did you have to recite it within everyone's hearing?"
    Fothad reddened. "I wasn't thinking clearly."
    "So I noticed. So everyone noticed."
    The redness deepened. "I'm sorry for that, truly. You know I'm not usually so . . . well . . . impolitic."
    "Good choice of a word, that. Impolitic."
    "Aedh, please. I didn't mean to make things difficult for you, you know that. It's only that . . ." The poet shook his head helplessly. "The ancient bards were right about this: The words come when and where they will, and I don't always have a chance to control them. Besides," he added defiantly, "you know I was right. It was one thing for you to call up a full muster of Eriu's men to battle Leinster; that was well within your royal rights—"
    "Thank you so much for reminding me."
    "Och, well . . ." Fothad hesitated, not quite meeting the king's gaze. He and Aedh had once been tutor and pupil (with Fothad, who was not that much the elder, seared nearly foolish by the responsibility), but the poet was very obviously reminding himself that this wasn't an erring pupil but the High King.
    "You are Aedh Ordnigh," Fothad continued at last, ignoring Aedh's impatient wave at the obvious statement, "Aedh the Ordained, proclaimed rightful High King by the Church, and yes, of that I do remind you. When you wished to involve that Church in secular matters—"
    "Where they've certainly been before," Aedh snapped.
    "Yes, but in this case involving them could not have been justified by any stretch of political maneuverings. And yes, yes, they might have joined in if you'd ordered it—but then again, they might not. And how would that have looked?"
    "Embarrassing. Awkward. I agree on that point, and yet—"
    "Aedh, please, listen: We both know that you've had quarrels enough with the clergy since the very first days of your reign. They don't care for your independence—"
    "And I don't care for their meddling."
    "Yes, but we both know that without the clergy's support, no king is going to rule for long. That is the way it is, like it or not. And High King or no, you cannot afford to antagonize the Church again!"
    You always could cut right to the heart of arguments. And win most of them. "Enough, Fothad. Enough! That poem of yours was damnably convincing all by itself. And," Aedh admitted reluctantly, "you are quite right." There were too many years of friendship between them for him to need to add more than the simplest of warnings. "Just don't embarrass me in public like that again, agreed?"
    Fothad, mouth half-open to defend himself, shut it again, reddening. "Ah. Indeed," he said awkwardly.
    Aedh accepted that for the apology it was. Besides, he thought, suddenly amused, Fothad's outburst of poetry hadn't done either of them any real harm; folk expected bizarre behavior from poets, and forgiveness to those poets from kings. "Onward."
    "Onward," Fothad agreed with blatant relief in his voice. "What of King Finsneachta?"
    Aedh