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more of the heather ale from the skull. Show them we have nothing to fear and all to give . Finnguinne hadn’t been too far from the truth. Cruibne did not want to be high king. There was no need, no external threat sufficient to require it, and the other tribes would never accept it. What he wanted was to make clear his position as first among the mormaers . He wanted to assert the strength of his tribe, their supremacy. He wanted to say that challenging the Cirig, even raiding them, was far more trouble than it was worth. Then he wanted to get on with his real ambition of growing old and fat.
    Britha largely agreed with his plan but needed to make sure that the rest of the tribe did not grow fat, lazy and unused to battle. Britha let the circle around the fire lapse into easy conversation. She remained aloof from it, only saying something when directly addressed and then as little as she could. This was a necessary part of her role: it helped promote the mystery and respect required to do what she did, and she found that the people who spoke the least were often considered the wisest and actually listened to.
    When she was able, Britha slipped away from the fire. Walked into the night and looked down at the moon reflected in the Tatha. Looking at the water made her think of Cliodna. Wondering where she was. Had she returned to her cave? Britha was already trying to think of excuses to return there and then cursing herself for her weakness. She could not explain the sudden change in the other woman. Britha knew she was being foolish. Her mother and her grandmother before her, when they were teaching her the secrets that the male dryw could not, had warned her against becoming involved with those from the Otherworld.
    She felt a large strong hand grab her buttock. Her elbow flew backwards with a satisfying crunch followed by a series of curses. Britha swung round to see which drunken fool wanted to be cursed until his testicles made acorns look large.
    She found Cruibne holding his nose and cursing. He was obviously the worse for drink but not insensible. A champion needed to remain sober, a mormaer just needed to hold his drink.
    ‘My nose! You scabby—’
    ‘Choose your words, Cruibne . Mormaer or no, I will not be manhandled.’ She respected the king and would not have struck him in front of others, but at the same time that did not give him licence.
    ‘Ha! I just came to see if there was a ritual we could do to ensure the success of the gathering.’
    Britha could not help but smile. She knew exactly what kind of ritual he had in mind. Britha guessed that chancing like this to get what he wanted was probably a useful, if at times irritating, quality in a mormaer .
    ‘That is for very specific situations and only with Ethne’s blessing. Unless you think I enjoy lying with a stinking sack of pus like yourself?’
    Cruibne’s expression darkened at the insult. Britha was not terribly worried, but fortunately the mormaer rediscovered his sense of humour quickly.
    ‘You always seemed to,’ he said, reaching up to stroke her hair. It was true to a degree. Cruibne was not an untalented lover, which was important for the success of the rites, the sacrifice – her sacrifice – the seed they returned to the earth. He’d had to be trained of course. However, all the magic in the Otherworld could not have compelled her to tell Cruibne that.
    ‘Don’t make me hurt you and then ask Ethne to come over here and hurt you as well,’ she told him. Cruibne gave this some thought. He stopped stroking her hair.
    ‘It worries me that the Ce, the Fidach and the Cait did not come,’ Cruibne said, changing the subject, seeming almost sober. Britha nodded. She had been thinking the same. When not thinking about Cliodna. ‘Finnguinne’s a serpent-tongued sheep rapist, but do you think he’s right? That they think I mean to rule them?’
    Britha shook her head. ‘Can you see Calgacus of the Bitter Tongue not coming here to tell