The aged Abbott Germanus hobbled around on his stick, overseeing with approval the laying of the foundation stones for the new chapel. He could do little more than sit in the sun and murmur his prayers, but he was happy. It was delightful to see his life’s work fulfilled and to see the end of the despicable Pagani shrine.

Ethne and Ruadh received the official news of Gaine’s death by messenger, but Ethne was already aware the moment Gaine passed over. An owl had landed on her open windowsill, hooting and flapping its wings as she was preparing supper.

They left the Forest School in the care of Daire and Clothru and set out for the rath of the Ard-Ri. After three days of hard walking, they entered the rath easily; most of the available warriors were traveling with the funeral or engaged in building the stone chapel, and there were no guards posted at the gates. They went straight to the nemed and gazed in dismay at the shambles.

A few small guesthouses stood at the far reaches of the nemed, most of which were now occupied by laborers and monks. One still stood empty because it had a hole in the roof that badly needed thatching. Ruadh collected sally rods to patch the hole while Ethne dug up roots and medicines from the nemed garden before they were trampled further under the feet of the workers. She scooped up fallen elder, rowan, and hawthorn berries to dry for later use or to plant at the Forest School.

“Waste nothing” echoed the voice of Gaine in her mind.

She also managed to save the bell branch, still hidden in its rocky recess at the foot of the ruined fire altar. Her hands trembled as she pulled it out, thinking of the proud days when the Druid truths were lived in the open. For a moment, she was overcome with grief at the loss of so much beauty and devotion.

As the former rígain, she was allowed to move about as she wished. No one stopped her from gathering simples in the garden. To the warriors and laborers, she was but a sad, middle-aged woman quietly picking at her memories. None suspected the fire that smoldered inside her.

One day, as she walked near the prisoner’s mound, she noticed that someone was being kept under guard.

“Who is being held inside?” she inquired of a warrior.

“It’s no one important, just a Drui. He is of interest to the Cristaidi, so we are ordered to keep him locked up.”

Hearing that the prisoner was a Drui, she felt duty bound to visit him and see if he needed anything, perhaps a warm blanket or a hot meal. She was well aware of the conditions within the mound and of the many ways the guards could make a prisoner suffer.

She went back to the guesthouse and prepared a cauldron of soup made with dried deer meat and such herbs as she had from the nemed garden. It would serve as dinner for herself and Ruadh that evening, and she would take some to the prisoner.

When the soup was ready, she covered a bowlful of the steaming liquid with a ceramic plate to hold in the warmth, gathered up a coarse linen napkin and a horn spoon, and carefully walked to the mound. As she approached, she saw Cadla’s sons sitting at the entrance, playing fidchell. They looked up when they finally noticed her.

“What do you have in that bowl?” asked Eógan, wondering if he should be concerned. After all, the woman was a Ban-Drui, and she might be smuggling in a weapon to the hostage.

“It’s just a bowl of soup for the prisoner. I know how cold it can get in that cell, especially at night.”

“Let me see,” said Tanaide, pulling the horn spoon from Ethne’s hand and swirling it around in the bowl. When he was satisfied that there was nothing hidden in the soup, he let her pass and fumbled on his belt for the iron key to the gate.

The prisoner sat on a wooden bench in the shadows, so Ethne could not see his face, but his blue robes told her instantly that he was a fili from Innis nan Druidneach. The man was of a higher rank than any of the warriors knew. She wondered if Cadla was aware of the true status of the Drui in his custody.

“I salute you in the name of the gods of your people,” she said, a formal greeting to let the man know she gave him her respect.

“Thank you for your kind greeting, my lady,” he replied politely. “And may your gods be honored always.”

Lucius stepped into the light of the opening. The setting sun fell on him, revealing his full face and form.

Ethne dropped the bowl with a cry as soup splattered onto the ground; she stood transfixed. Lucius bent to retrieve the bowl, but she put out her arm to stop him. Without a word, she touched his face, traced the bones of his jaw with her fingers, and looked with wonder into his eyes. Her eyes clouded with tears.

“Crimthann!” Ethne said in a whisper. For before her was Crimthann, her husband, the old Ard-Ri as she had known him in his youth, a reincarnation sent from the Otherworld.

Lucius did not know if she was mad or in some kind of trance. He kept himself very still as he watched the emotions passing rapidly over the woman’s face. Ethne stood as if turned to stone, while her tears streamed. She made no move to pick up the forgotten wooden bowl and the little horn spoon.

The princes stared in amazement. “Maybe she is a madwoman?” Eógan asked, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by responsibility. “We had better find her husband!”

They pushed Ethne aside and locked in the prisoner, and then loped off to find Ruadh, who was still perched on top of the guesthouse, tying fat bundles of sally rods onto the wooden frame of the roof.

“Come quickly!” they said. “Your wife has gone mad!”

Ruadh slid to the ground, dropping the thatch from his hands, and followed the princes, who were running back to the mound.

“Oh…my…gods!” he said when he saw the prisoner. He too saw Crimthann brought back to life. “Who are you? And where did you come from?” he asked, still panting.

“I came from Gallia, and then—” Lucius began.

“Who are your people?” Ethne managed to ask.

“I don’t know. I was told that I was born to a family of fisher folk on the coast of Armorica, but I have never met them, at least not that I can remember. I was raised by Cristaidi monks on the island of Inissi Leuca.”

“How old are you?” Ruadh asked

Ethne read the shape of his thoughts and her breathing came hard.

“I am not sure,” Lucius answered. “About sixteen turnings of the sun.”

Ethne fainted in a crumpled heap at Ruadh’s feet.

Lucius bent to help lift Ethne. “Do I frighten her?” he asked.

“It is not fear that freezes her,” said Ruadh. “It is recognizing her own blood.”