As if in response to Cadla’s mood, the weather shifted suddenly. Endless rain set in, and the warriors found they could no longer practice in the courtyard, needing to keep their weapons from the damp. Everyone crowded indoors, the flaith and warriors into the great round hall of the Ard-Ri, and the slaves and craftspeople into the barns and outbuildings.

The dominant smells at court were now soggy wool, wet dog, and smoldering brazier, interspersed with wet wood as rain leaked down the giant roof-trees. The central firepit hissed continuously as fat raindrops splattered on the burning logs.

“It’s as crowded as midwinter in here,” said Cadla, feeling gloomier than ever.

Two days later, a messenger arrived from the north bringing news of battle and a serious challenge from Irardacht. Cadla’s forces had been severely tested, though they had won in the end. Now, some wounded, they were making their way back to the Ard-Ri’s rath.

On hearing the news, Ethne and Aífe deliberated. As professional healers, they felt a strong duty to help the injured warriors. But they wished to avoid the political firestorm that their presence could ignite.

“You are liaig, dedicated to the gods. That is your sacred function, and you cannot refuse to honor it!” said Gaine. “Wear my old tunics. With hoods pulled down over your faces, no one will recognize you. No one will suspect.”

So, dressed in tattered old brown and grey robes, Ethne, Aífe, and a few assistants went to the storehouse of the rath where the herbs and other medicines were kept. It was neat and clean—the Druid had seen to that—but the supply of healing worts was paltry, a fraction of what had been there when Ethne had kept inventory.

“We will have to make do. Take vervain, figwort, and oak bark from the shelves. We’ll make a strong oak bark brew to wash the wounds, and we’ll need comfrey poultices day and night,” Ethne ordered.

Several of the Druid set to work putting water to boil and preparing the wound wash. Others went to the nemed garden to gather comfrey and plantain leaves and roots to mash with mortars and pestles and spread on linen cloths. Others peeled cloves of garlic, mashed them to a paste, and mixed them with honey to spread on bandages.

Ethne and Aífe soaked flaxen thread and iron needles in a bowl of the sacred liquid called the Waters of Life. No one knew why, but if they performed this ritual, the wounds always healed better. They soaked dried vervain and figwort leaves in hot water to soften them and spread them on bandages. They made a brew of vervain leaves that was bitter to the taste but purifying for the blood.

“Better mix this with elderberries and honey or they will never get it down,” said Ethne, speaking from long experience.

When the preparations were complete, the Druid presented themselves at court. They stood at the far end of the hall with heads bowed, hands tucked away in their sleeves.

Máel Ísu saw them enter and became very still as indignation rose in his throat. “We don’t need these beggar-poets, these bandits and whores in this place! I don’t want them or their filthy potions!”

Cadla was embarrassed and secretly ashamed at the outburst. As Ard-Ri, it was his duty to extend sacred hospitality to everyone who came into the rath. He lived by the old maxim Inhospitality will destroy the flowers. He understood well, even though the Cristaidi said it was nonsense, that the justice and behavior of the king affected the health of the cows, the height of the grain, the weather, even the number of fish in the streams. So the Druid had always taught, and he was loathe to break with the ancient wisdom.

“I am sure the Druid will take care of the injured in their enclosure. You won’t have to endure their presence here for long,” Cadla said diplomatically, hoping to mollify Máel Ísu.

Nuin was spokesman for the Druid. “We can examine them as they arrive, to see which ones can be safely left here in the hall and which need more intensive care. The gravely wounded will be taken to the nemed for nursing.”

Máel Ísu grimaced but waved the back of his hand at them as if to say, “Go on, then, do what you must.”

The wounded came in gradually, by twos and threes, and Ethne and Aífe supervised the triage. Despite Máel Ísu’s protest, Cadla was grateful for the swift and efficient work of the healers and watched with concern as they attended to each warrior. He made a point of thanking each warrior personally for his service to In Medon.

The Druid labored into the night, caring for the injured and carrying or helping the worst cases to the House of Healing within the nemed. Ethne and Ruadh kept their heads down and their hoods in place, but Aífe was a stranger to the ways of court and more careless about revealing her identity.

As the last patient settled in, Cadla called for a feast to refresh the Druid and the warriors who were well enough to attend.

“The matter of the feast is delicate,” he confided to Lorcan. “Protocol dictates that the highest-ranking person sits next to me, the king, and then all others in descending order of rank. The first cup of liquor must be sipped first by me, then the highest-ranking guest, and then all others. Similarly with the food; I am to be served first, then the highest-ranking guest, and so on. But who gets the first drink after me? The best cut of meat? Máel Ísu or Gaine?”

It was in times like these that Cadla wished he had a Drui at his side, in the manner of the old days. Then he could be sure of justice, precedent, and the proper rules of conduct.

Gaine hobbled to the hall to watch the Druid at work, her right as the most senior Drui. Máel Ísu was livid when he saw her and made a point of taking Cadla by the arm, saying, “It is written that thou shall not suffer a witch to live!”

“She isn’t a witch,” Cadla replied. “She is a very old lady and the Ard-Ban-Drui.”

Cadla had a strong impression that Máel Ísu was jealous of Gaine and the respect that still fell on her like a rich cloak. He seemed threatened whenever she was shown favor, rare as that was. The Druid had worked long and hard, and Gaine deserved the credit, so Cadla finally decided to place Gaine at his side for the feast. Máel Ísu was beside himself.

“I will not partake of this she-devil’s feast!” he said, storming out of the hall.

Cadla turned away to keep from showing his irritation. It was then that he noticed Aífe.

She was heedless of everything but the work before her. Her hood had fallen down, and golden ringlets spilled over the neck of the old tunic she was wearing. For Cadla, it was as if the morning sun had broken over a cold, grey sea. For a moment, he stood transfixed, staring.

“Who is that?” he whispered urgently to Gaine as the slaves began to distribute wooden platters of roasted salmon, watercress salad, and barley bread.

Gaine’s heart sank, knowing that no good could possibly come of his interest. Hadn’t she demanded that Aífe, Ruadh, and Ethne take care to hide their identities and keep their faces hidden? Why hadn’t the foolish girl paid more attention? And she a trained Drui! Hadn’t she said to Aífe, “Avoid battle, and it will avoid you”?

She leaned casually towards Cadla. “She is no one. A lowly girl—you would find her unrefined. She is a peasant and has no conversation.”

But Cadla’s eyes gathered her in. “I think you are wrong. She is the loveliest thing that has entered this hall in a decade of summers!” At that very moment, something bloomed in his heart. The grey gloom of his yesterdays was suddenly gone, and the flesh on his bones came alive. A song thrummed in his blood, filling him with bright fire.

“Here!” he said loudly, and all turned to see. He called for the ritual bowl of fion, stood, and offered Aífe the first drink. As he presented the bowl, he looked into Aífe’s impossibly green eyes and was instantly lost to all reason.

“You are like starlight in a black night. You are like the dawn of a spring morning,” he said with a bow, handing her the ceremonial liquid that he should have sipped first, then passed to Gaine, in deference to her rank.

The silence around the table was stiff with shock. Gaine clenched her fists in her lap. This breach of precedence and hospitality will begin no end of trouble. If we were all warriors, someone in this hall would be dead by now! thought Gaine. Why are old men so predictable … and so foolish?

No one knew what to do. Embarrassment ran like a jolt around the room. He was an old man of rank; she was so young and so unimportant. But what could they say? He was the Ard-Ri.

Ruadh started to rise, thinking to block the king’s absurd action and thus keep him from further disgrace, but Ethne held a firm grip on his thigh, holding him to his seat, thinking it best not to call attention to themselves.

Cadla next invited Aífe to sit next to him, usurping Gaine’s position as the most honored guest. Aífe demurred, but Gaine shook her head, indicating that Aífe should be compliant and not cause trouble. It was rare enough that the Druid were invited to the hall of the Ard-Ri and rarer still that they shared his meat. Pride of place meant little to Gaine personally; she could withstand any insult if it helped to bolster the prestige of the Druid.

Silence reigned for the rest of the meal, and Cadla noticed nothing, saving his attention for cutting choice bits of meat and putting them onto Aífe’s plate. He watched her eat every morsel as though he were devouring her.

“Who are you?” he finally asked.

“A student in the nemed” was all the answer she gave.

“But you are newly arrived?”

Aífe nodded and said, “I have traveled far to be here.”

It was all she could bring herself to say. Charmed with her shyness, Cadla let those words suffice … for the moment.