Glas Na Baile lay nearly fifty miles beyond the border of Seanrós, an isolated earthen ring fort that was the only building visible for miles amongst the green pastureland. Had Conor not been so sure of the druid’s strategy in hiding the rune stones, he never would have thought anything of import could lie inside the crumbling walls.

He stopped his party about half a mile away, just as the sun had passed its highest point and was creeping down to the opposite horizon. “Ailill, ride ahead and request shelter for a bard and his party. We’ll be able to gauge our response from there.”

“Aye, sir.” Ailill gave a little bow on horseback and spurred the animal forward at a brisk clip. There weren’t many bards traveling Seare at the moment, but Conor hoped the inhabitants would imagine their luck had changed. In these dark days, he didn’t know a village that would not welcome the prospect of a little music to brighten the night.

After what seemed like hours but was probably only several minutes, Ailill came riding back out at a gallop. He pulled up his horse, breathless. “I think the charade might be useless at this point, sir.”

“Why’s that? Did they not believe you?”

Ailill laughed. “We are too readily recognized as Fíréin, and your acclaim is too great. I barely managed my request before word went out that Conor of Ard Dhaimhin had come to stay.”

So the Conclave really hadn’t been exaggerating. “Safe, you think?”

“They’re just villagers and farmers. Armed, but not warriors. Safe as we’ll get on this mission, I’d think.”

“Very well, then. Let’s not reject their hospitality.” Conor cued his horse forward, and the other men fell in around him.

Conor had been through a number of villages and stayed at various keeps over his lifetime, but somehow he was still taken aback as they rode through the broken-down gates. Men, women, and children swarmed around them, their faces shining with hope. A woman reached out to touch his boot as if he were some sort of saint, then was swallowed back into the crowd. The tiny fort had been home to perhaps a hundred people at the height of its use a thousand years ago, fewer in modern times, but now it was packed full. Why had they congregated here when the earthen walls offered so little protection? Clearly, it wasn’t because of abundance of supplies. The people looked emaciated, their clothing in rags.

An older man in a dirty yellow tunic emerged from the throng and stopped in front of them. “Welcome to Glas Na Baile. I am Lonn, the town father. We offer you our hospitality, such as it is.”

Town father. It was such an archaic term that it took a second for Conor to remember the meaning. It was used in a place where the people did not all belong to one clan but needed a leader. Was this a gathering of Clanless? Or were they simply all who were left from the region’s crofters?

“I’m Conor. These are my companions. We would be pleased to offer a gift of music in return for your hospitality.”

Excited whispers rustled through the group, as if his words only confirmed what they already expected. Lonn smiled and spread his arms wide. “Please, join me. We will care for your animals.”

In better times, he would have trusted the laws of hospitality, but he couldn’t risk the loss of their supplies. “Blair, Ibor, stay with the horses,” he murmured. “The rest with me.”

Conor dismounted and then removed the strapping of his harp case from the horse’s cinch. The other men took their weapons and followed close behind, their manner calm but alert.

Lonn led the way into one of three large clocháns with a thatched roof, similar to those that served as barracks in Ard Dhaimhin. This structure was divided into warrens of rooms, ostensibly to house families away from the elements. The center section had all the accoutrements of a typical hall on a much smaller scale, arranged around a central fire pit that sent curls of gray smoke to the sky. Conor took a seat at the table across from Lonn, his men filling in protectively around him.

Conor accepted the earthenware cup of water that was set before him, but he didn’t drink. “This was once the seat of Clan Dalaigh, was it not?”

“Aye, it was. But the family was killed. Some of the people you see here were of Dalaigh’s septs. Others were merely crofters whose livestock and crops were taken. Still others lost their livelihood to the plague.”

“The plague,” Conor repeated. “Disease?”

“Only of the animals. Entire flocks sickened and died, those that weren’t already taken by the king’s men. But without the animals —”

“There’s nothing to live on.”

“Exactly. So the people came here, where they have some protection from the spirits and the elements and to take what safety there is in larger numbers.” Lonn took a seat opposite him and studied him carefully. “You are younger than I thought, Conor of Ard Dhaimhin.”

“I’m curious. How did you know me when my man came to the gates?”

“You’ve not heard the stories about you, then. The warrior with the bard’s gift. The one who bears both the sword and the song. But because you ask our hospitality as a bard, I assume that your business has to do with the latter and not the former.”

The whole exchange had the feeling of ritual, and despite the man’s appearance and his claim of being the town father, Conor was certain Lonn must be one of the remaining members of the destroyed Clan Dalaigh. He would treat him as such, with the deference and formality due a clan lord. “We seek something that you might have.”

“What is that?”

“A standing stone.”

“You see for yourself, there are no standing stones here.” Lonn waved a hand nonchalantly.

“Aye, but it may have been appropriated for other uses. Or hidden?”

Something quick and humorless lit Lonn’s eyes. “So that’s what Lord Keondric is after. The pattern stone.”

“Is that what you call it? Where is it?”

Lonn rose. “Come and I’ll show you.”

Conor exchanged a look with the men and then followed their host from the clochán back into the earthen courtyard. Once more they were thronged by people, but Lonn waved them off as the party wound through the huts and tents pitched in what would have been the courtyard and training grounds. He led them behind a kitchen emanating smoke and cooking smells and pointed to a long rectangular piece of granite embedded in the earth.

“That’s it?” Conor asked, noting the dark stains along the top surface.

“It’s where we butcher animals. Hard to find a solid piece of granite like that.”

Conor exchanged a wry glance with Ailill. “That’s one way to put it to use. I doubt anyone would be looking for it there.” He circled the stone, looking for the etched rune on its surface. He finally glimpsed a gouge in the stone where it disappeared into the ground. Centuries of dirt had built up around the base, obscuring it almost completely from sight. He removed his knife and began to excavate the space in front of it.

“That’s not just one rune; that’s several,” Blair murmured from beside him. “How do we destroy them?”

“The same way they were made, I’d think. Chisel them off.”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.” Lonn stepped in front of them, a brave move considering that Conor had an unsheathed blade in hand. “Those markings are the only things keeping the spirits away from the fortress. You can’t take them.”

“You know of the runes’ effect?” Conor asked.

“Oh, aye. It’s well known in the area that the old magic is strong at the fort.”

“What if I were to replace it with something better?”

Now interest sparked in his eyes. “As you’ve done with the High City? And Ard Bealach?”

Word really did travel fast. “Aye, just like.”

“Do that first and you may do whatever you wish with the stone.”

“Fair enough. After supper?”

Lonn grinned. “After supper.”

They tramped back to the main clochán, where Lonn served them small platters of fish and what Conor suspected was the last of their wine. It was a modest meal and yet one that Conor was sure stretched them beyond their usual limits of hospitality. He didn’t refuse, however. The town father knew very well what they offered in return, just as he must suspect the importance of their mission. Still, they ate and drank modestly, taking only as much as they needed to sate their hunger and keep up their energy, knowing the leftovers would go to the others waiting outside. When the plates were cleared, Conor unbuckled the straps on his harp case and brought out the instrument. He put his fingers to the strings, expecting to find the echoes of magic from the rune pins, but they felt dull and lifeless. Unexceptional.

The rune. He’d completely forgotten about it. He dipped his finger into his water cup and smeared the ink on his chest.

This time when he touched the strings, a song immediately came to mind, but it wasn’t the one he’d played at Ard Bealach, nor the one that had formed the runes at Ard Dhaimhin. Odd how he never consciously attempted to change the tune, yet each ward had its own melody. As the notes filled the room, so did the magic, spreading through the clochán and out through the fortress itself, arching overhead and creeping along the ground. Instinctively, he sent a thread from the confines of the dún across the countryside to Ard Dhaimhin’s wards, where it joined with a great fountain of golden light. And then it was done, settling into a pleasant trickle of power. He lowered the harp.

“That’s it?” Lonn asked, his eyes wide.

“That’s it. It’s more protection than the stone was. The sidhe will find more convenient locations to plague now.”

“Bless you, sir,” he murmured. “And now . . .”

Conor returned his harp to the case. Now they would see if it were really as simple to remove the rune as they thought.

He gave Ailill the honors of chipping away the symbols from the stone, which broke off in finger-sized chunks. Blair then pulverized them into smaller pieces with a mallet. When they were finished, all that remained was an unevenly carved granite surface. He tried not to think of the fact that they were defacing thousand-year-old artifacts that had been around since before the coming of Balus. Right now, his job was strictly pragmatic: destroy all sources of runes that the druid could use to increase his power.

They slept in the hall of the clochán that night, aware they were likely displacing this patch of floor’s usual occupants. Despite the fact they seemed to be among friends, Conor lay down with his hand on his knife, only dozing throughout the night. When they woke in the morning, they begged off Lonn’s offer of breakfast and said their good-byes.

“I hope they’re all that simple,” Ailill said as they kicked their horses into a canter and headed southward toward the next fortress.

“Aye, and that easy to locate,” Blair said. “What’s to keep the next one from being the foundation stone for the entire fort?”

Conor kept quiet. He didn’t want to dampen the men’s enthusiasm for their first success, but he couldn’t help but feel they were underestimating their opponent. Two days later, he looked to the north and knew why: a plume of smoke rose in the distance, too large to signal anything but total destruction.

He’d suspected Niall would somehow make them pay for their successes. Now he knew the price was no less than the lives of innocents.

Aine felt the exact moment that Conor broke the integrity of the rune. His mind blazed bright in her consciousness, drawing her to it without any conscious thought. He was optimistic about their success, their hosts friendly and cooperative. She felt his triumph when the wards around the fortress joined with Ard Dhaimhin’s, his satisfaction when they completed the task they’d set out to do.

Then all too quickly, she heard his determination to shut her out. But just before he repaired the rune on his skin, she thought she heard him whisper, I love you.