She didn’t know how long she slept. It might have been the faint crack of a twig, or no more than the rustle of a single leaf that woke her. But Séanat opened her eyes, and there was a man in the clearing, no more than a dozen steps away.

Her sword was already in her hand as she leaped up, prepared to slash and stab. The man didn’t move. He stood completely still, his own sword pointed towards the earth, dressed in the armour of the Fomóiri.

But his face was not hideous or twisted with evil, nor was his body misshapen. He was broad of shoulder and comely like the disgraced King Bres, who carried the blood of both the Fomóiri and the Tuatha Dé Danann in his veins. Like Lugh, born of Ethlinn, Balor’s daughter. His hair was like smoke to Séanat’s flame.

Still he was of the enemy. Séanat lunged towards him, her sword reaching his throat before he could raise his own.

«Prepare to die, Fomóir,» she cried.

His eyes, blue as the sea, met hers. «Kill me, then,» he said, his accent so light that she might never have noticed it had he worn the armour of the People.

Her hand twitched, and her sword drew a thin line of blood from his neck. «Do you seek death?»

He smiled with a great sadness that tore at her heart. «I do, for I have no people and no place.» He lifted his chin. «Finish it, warrior.»

If it had not been for the old oak and the magic of its peace, she might have severed his head then and there. But her fingers trembled and the sword went slack in her hand.

«Who are you?» she demanded.

«I am called Aodhan,» he said in his soft, low voice. «I fought with the Fomóiri.»

«You are no Fomóir!»

«Am I not?» He gestured at his armour with its sigils of writhing wyrms and ravening wolves. «Will it help if I fight you now, woman of the Tuatha Dé?»

She backed away. «I will fight you, and win!»

He shook his head, stirring the black forelock that curled over his brow. «You will win,» he said. He dropped his sword and spread his arms. «Come.»

Séanat’s heart danced a wild jig in her chest. «Coward,» she hissed.

«Yes,» he said.

Moving clumsily as a newborn calf, she stumbled backwards until she came up against the oak’s massive trunk. Light filtered through the branches to lie across Aodhan’s head and shoulders like a crown of fire.

«I am a traitor,» he said, «a traitor to both my peoples.»

«Both?» Oh, she had known it, known from the beginning.

«You asked who I am,» he said. «But that I do not know. I was raised by Fomóiri to be Fomóir. But my heart has told me»— He shook his head again. «It matters not. I fought beside those who gave me food and shelter and cared for me in times of illness. I would die with them.»

Oh, how simple it would be to give him his wish rather than pay heed to the pity that weakened her. Bes had been half-Tuatha Dé, though in the end he had chosen his Fomóir father’s people. Lugh had chosen the opposite. This warrior, like them, was half light and half darkness.

But he had made his choice.

Séanat raised her sword again. Aodhan closed his eyes.

She dropped the sword with a wretched cry. She could not do it. He was unarmed, a pig for the slaughter. She was a warrior, not an executioner.

And he was comely. So very comely. The light was there, shining in his eyes, almost eclipsed by the shadow of his pain and sorrow.

When he moved, she had no time to think how easily she had been tricked. In an instant he had her sword in his hand. The blade glittered in the waning light.

She laughed inwardly. She’d been a fool. And soon she would be a dead fool.

Séanat stood very straight, raised her head, and lifted her arms. Morrígan, Great Queen, be with me. Let me die with honour.

The blow never came. She heard a grunt of pain, and the sound of a body falling to the ground. Aodhan lay curled like a newborn babe around the hilt of the sword he had plunged deep into his chest.

Séanat dropped to her knees beside him. His blood was already soaking into the soil, painting the brown leaves with crimson. She didn’t dare pull the sword free, for that would surely end his life. He must die slowly, his life leaking away, with only an enemy to witness his passing.

There were songs for the dying — taught, it was said, to the People by the Goddess Danu herself before the coming to Inis Fáil. Never had such a song been sung by one of the Tuatha Dé for a Fomóir. But Séanat laid her hands upon Aodhan’s shoulders and began the lament, her voice rising and curling among the heavy branches above her head. One tear came, and then another — no shame, for the emotions of the Tuatha Dé ran high, in battle and in sorrow.

«Why do you weep, child?»

Séanat opened her eyes. The scent of flowers filled her nostrils, and the oak’s leaves murmured as the great tree bowed to the one who had come.

«My lady,» Séanat whispered. Bluebells and primroses had sprung up where the lady trod, covering her bare feet and clinging to her robes like the finest embroidery. No shadow fell over Séanat as Brighid came to stand beside her.

«He is dying, lady,» Séanat said. «Though I know not why I should mourn.»

Brighid sighed, and a dozen tiny birds settled on her shoulders. «I have mourned,» she said. «Mourned because there is no peace, and my son is dead.»

Sickened by her stupid mistake, Séanat bowed, her braided locks brushing Brighid’s feet. She knew the great loss the lady had suffered in this battle, the sacrifices she had made in the name of peace. She had married Bres when he had become King of the Tuatha Dé, hoping that the union would bring the two warring peoples together at last.

But Bres had enslaved his subjects, making a mockery of Brighid’s hopes. He was deposed and sent into exile. Their son, Ruadán, had become a spy for the Fomóiri and had met his death in the camp of the Tuatha Dé. Brighid’s keening had been heard the length and breadth of Inis Fáil.

«Forgive me, lady,» Séanat said.

Brighid’s tears fell on a scattering of acorns, and new trees sprang from their hearts. «My son was misled,» she said. «He was destroyed by his father’s lust for power. But he was not evil.» She knelt, laying her hand on Aodhan’s arm. «This one, too, was misled.»

Séanat’s breast swelled with hope. «Is he Tuatha Dé, lady?»

The lady gave no answer. She bent her head over Aodhan as the last breaths shuddered out of his mouth. «Do you wish him healed, a nighean ruadh?»

Yes. Oh, yes. «He is the enemy.»

«Is he?» Brighid stroked Aodhan’s damp hair. «I see only a boy driven to his death.» She touched Séanat’s hand. «It is your choice, warrior. But know that if you choose yes, you are bound to him forever.»

Forever. The Tuatha Dé lived long. Séanat had always known she might die in battle, but such battles must be fewer now. She might live many years yet to come.

«I accept,» she breathed. «Let him be healed, lady.»

One touch was all it took. One touch of the lady’s fingertips upon the torn flesh under the armour and cloth beneath. One moment, and the sword slipped from Aodhan’s chest. A spurt of blood followed, stanched with another touch of Brighid’s white finger. Aodhan groaned, and his muscles went slack.

But he was not dead. He was sleeping, the rest of one who has fought every battle and staggers back to the ráth to lick his wounds. In his face was an innocence Séanat had almost forgotten.

«You must stay with him,» Brighid said, rising. «He will have no defence until he wakes.» She brushed Séanat’s forehead with the back of her slender hand. «Remember, he is yours now. All that he is will be within your keeping.»

She turned and walked away, her white form dissolving into the gloom of dusk. Séanat stared after her until there was no more light to see. She removed her cloak and gently spread it over Aodhan. The night would be cold; Samhain was done, and the season was turning. Wolves crept in these woods, silent and yellow-eyed, creatures of Badb and her grim sisters.

I have betrayed my queen, Séanat thought, shivering as she drew her knees tight to her chest. The Morrígan would never forgive her for such mercy shown an enemy. Had not the Morrígan summoned all the Druids and magicians to defeat the Fomóiri? Had she not foreseen victory? Had she not predicted the very end of the world?

The other Daughters would not understand. But Séanat had made her choice. She must return to the royal camp and tell Lugh what she had done. If he sent her into exile.

It was a warrior’s place to accept her fate.

Her skin puckered as the warmth left the earth. Brighid’s flowers withered, and the birds scattered for shelter. Séanat lay down beside Aodhan and pulled the cloak over her shoulder so that it covered them both. His breath stirred the hair at the nape of her neck.

«All that he is will be within your keeping.»

The Dagda grant he was worth it.

Aodhan woke with a start. The air was crisp on his face, but his body was as hot as the fire that shaped the sword.

She lay beside him, the warrior with her mane of red hair and dimpled chin and wide, wild eyes. She had curled into him, her hands tucked under her breasts, her legs drawn up as if she meant to keep one last barrier between them. A barrier besides the sword that rested in the narrow space between his body and hers.

Releasing his breath, Aodhan touched her hair. He had seen such hair many times before among the Tuatha Dé. But hers was brighter, shot with gold, spitting sparks when he touched it.