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storyteller. Even Liam, on occasion, would contribute some
    heroic tale containing detailed descriptions of battles and the technicalities of armed and unarmed combat. There was a strong following for these among the men. Iubdan, as I have said, never told a tale, though he listened attentively. At such times folk were reminded that he was a Briton, but he was well respected for his fairness, his generosity, and above all his capacity for hard work; and so they did not hold his ancestry against him.
    On the night of Imbolc, however, it was not one of our household who told the tale. My mother was asked for a story, but she excused herself.
    "With such a learned company in our midst," she said sweetly, "I must decline for tonight.
    Conor, we know the talent of your kind for such a task. Perhaps you will favor us with a tale for Brighid's day?"
    I thought, looking at her, that she still seemed weary, with a trace of shadow around the luminous green eyes. She was always pale, but tonight her skin had a transparency that made me uneasy. She sat on a bench beside Iubdan, and her small hand was swallowed up by his large one.
    His other arm was around her shoulders, and she leaned against him. The words came to me again, Let them keep this
    , and I
    flinched. I told myself sternly to stop this foolishness. What did I think I was, a seer? More likely just a girl with a fit of the vapors.
    "Thank you," said Conor gravely, but he did not rise to his feet. Instead, he looked across the hall and gave the smallest of nods. And so it was the young druid, the one who had borne the torch the night before to rekindle our hearth fires, who stepped forward and readied himself to entertain us. He was, indeed, a well-made young fellow, quite tall and very straight backed with the discipline of his kind, his curling hair not the fiery red of my father's and Niamh's but a deeper shade, the color at the heart of a winter sunset. And his eyes were dark, the dark of ripe mulberries, and hard to read. There was a little cleft in his chin, and he had a pair of wicked dimples when he allowed them to show. Just as well, I
    thought, that this is one of the brotherhood. If not, half the young girls of Sevenwaters would be fighting over him. I dare say he'd enjoy that.
    "What better tale for Imbolc," began the young druid, "than that of Aengus Og and the fair Caer Ibormeith? A tale of love, and mystery, and transformation. By your leave, I will tell this tale tonight."
    I had expected he might be nervous, but his voice was strong and confident. I supposed it came from years and years of privation and study. It takes a long time to learn what a druid must learn, and there are no books to help you. I saw, out of the corner of my eye, Liam looking at Sorcha, a small frown on his face and a question in his eyes. She gave a little nod as if to say, never mind, let him go on. For this tale was one we did not tell here at Sevenwaters. It cut altogether too close to the bone. I imagined this young man knew little of our history, or he Page 16

    would never have chosen it. Conor, surely, could not have been aware of his intention, or he would tactfully have suggested a different story. But Conor was sitting quietly near his sister, apparently unperturbed.
    "Even a son of the Tuatha De Danann," began the young man, "can fall sick for love. So it was with
    Aengus. Young, strong, handsome, a warrior of some repute; one would not have thought him so easily unmanned. But one afternoon, out hunting for deer, he was overtaken suddenly by a deep weariness and stretched himself out to sleep on the grass in the shade spread by a grove of yew trees. He slept straightaway, and in his sleep he dreamed. Oh, how he dreamed. In his dream, there she was: a woman so beautiful she outshone the stars in the sky, a woman to tear your heart in pieces. He saw her walking barefoot by a remote shore, tall and straight, her breasts white as moonlight on snow where they swelled around above the