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“Such is the price of vengeance,” the Lady said softly, laying her white hand on Máel Dúin’s. “Perhaps that is the lesson the druid meant to teach you, for surely he knew your foster brothers would follow.”

Máel Dúin did not answer for a long time. “My Queen, I do not know,” he said when he did. “But I am weary to the bone, and glad enough to tarry here with you.”

At that his men laid aside their grieving for a fearsome jollity, for such is the nature of warriors, who cannot afford to dwell upon the slain. They began to bang their cups upon the table, praising the solace of women and calling upon my Lady and Máel Dúin to make the nuptial toast as surely his foster brothers would have wanted, they said; for those lost comrades were no fools when it came to women’s beauty and grace, even if they were fools in the matter of obeying druids.

On it went until the Lady laughed and ordered a cask of good red wine to be breached and the two-handled loving cup to be brought forth. This was done, and wine poured into it until it foamed pink. Each grasping a handle, they drank; first her and then him.

Afterward her gaze was tender and bright upon him, and something in his falcon’s stare had eased into softness. His men shouted and cheered, and we cheered, too. I marked how Diurán raised his cup with the others and offered a toast, but when the Lady and Máel Dúin rose to leave the hall, he gazed after them, and his brow was furrowed.

Then he turned to me and smiled, and the smile smoothed his brow. “What do you say, Cébha my songbird? Shall we stay and make merry? Or shall we go forth and conclude the offering?”

The heat of his smile warmed me in unfamiliar places, and I blushed and nodded, unable to make an answer. He took my hand in all gentleness, and some of my sister-maidens gazed on me with envy, having heard his poet’s voice. I paid them no heed, and Diurán let me lead him forth from the hall, down the winding corridors of the dún to my own chamber.

It was a small room, but I shared it with no one. There was a narrow window that let in slanting rays of light from the rising moon. I stood in it as Diurán removed my clothes with his gentle hands, and moonlight silvered my skin.

“Little bird, my Cébha,” he whispered, his breath soft and warm on my neck. “Sea lily, pale as frost. Your side is as smooth as the swell of a wave, shining like foam in the starlight. Your sweet breasts are proud as mountains, tipped with dawn’s rosy glow. Come to me, hold me in your rounded white arms.”

I did, and he kissed me until my head swam. And then he laid me down upon my pallet and unlaced his shirt and his breeches. Naked in the moonlight, he looked like a vision, a man risen out of an enchanted pool. I reached out my arms and the pallet dipped under his weight.

“Sweet Cébha,” he murmured, and I shivered to feel him pressed the length of me, his skin so warm. “Love me well,my songbird.”

So it was that first night Máel Dúin and his men arrived, and I did not heed my Lady’s advice but gave away my heart to Diurán the poet as though it had no more value than a speckled pebble I had found beside the brook.

I did not know it, then. Love sets its barbs like a hook; it does not hurt until the line is tugged. I knew only that his words made my heart sing like the songbird he named me, and his touch made my blood sing. Such were the mysteries we uncovered together that night, the simple mysteries of a man and a woman together, and I was glad to know them at last.

The next day, the Lady went forth on her grey mare as she did every morning, riding inland to hear the isle folks’ concerns. Máel Dúin was content to wait in the great hall, and his men were content, too, playing at knucklebones and such games as men invent who have spent much time together.When she returned, she greeted Máel Dúin with a kiss. He caught her arm and begged her to stay, but she shook her head and smiled.

“Would you have me be idle?” she teased him. “You have earned your rest, but I have work to do.”

She went then to her day