But he still possessed a warrior’s fierce heart, and a warrior protected his own. Fionn had heard the bean sí’s cry, seen the worried face of the lass inside as she sat beside her dying queen. All was not well here.

The lass had not been frightened when he’d appeared. Fionn smiled for the first time in a long, long time. He wanted a woman of courage to care for his son, a woman who might understand that the old ways had passed but the gods lived still beyond the Veil.

Aware of the pounding of the distant sea and the rising dawn, Fionn called his horse from the Other World and waited for the sounds of jubilation and mourning to ring inside the castle.

His duty to his son was not yet done.

«Your Highness,» the elderly steward said, interrupting the prayers in the Queen’s chamber.

The steward had come from the formal courts of France and could not be convinced that the Irish did not bow to titles. He lost his bearings and grew confused unless he was «my lording» or «your highnessing» someone, and Anya had grown accustomed to his ways. She looked up from rocking her nephew, no longer annoyed with the man. How could anyone be annoyed while holding the future in her arms?

«Yes, François, what is it?»

«There’s a knight outside, says he’s been sent by the High King to serve the new O’Brion. His mantle is lined with fur, and the fibula must be pure gold! Shall I bring him here?» The last was asked dubiously since the upper chamber was filled with keening women.

Honouring a knight of the High King would be Anya’s first duty as the new King’s guardian. She had to play the part of ruler well or lose the respect she must command until the child could lead on his own. A daunting task for a gentle woman who would feed on dreams if allowed, but one to which she’d been raised.

«I will meet him in the hall, of course. Summon Garvan, if you will, and any of the other knights with him. Have the kitchen provide suitable fare for a man who has travelled far. I will be down shortly.»

Anya’s Norman mother had introduced many of the French ways to the O’Brion stronghold, but Conn the High King was pure Irish warrior. His men would not be gallant knights. Calling for scented water and her richest tunic and mantle, Anya pondered whether or not she should accept this «gift» of service. Did Conn mean for his knight to rule the O’Brions in the absence of a male O’Brion leader? If so, did she dare turn him away?

The maids wrapped silver ribbons in her long, blonde hair and one fastened the triple spiral gold fibula to her blue wool mantle. Anya owned nothing so fine as fur but would not have worn animals on her back anyway. Even her shoes were of matted felt and not leather. Her kingly brother had laughed at her odd ways, but her mother had seen the caul when Anya was born and accepted that her daughter was more attached to the natural world than most.

«Jewellery, please,» she told the maids eagerly arranging the red and gold striped train of her best gown. She might eschew fur, but her people produced the finest linens in the world.

«The queen’s jewellery?» one maid asked hesitantly.

«It was my mother’s,» Anya agreed. «Let us impress the High Court with our elegance so they do not think us weak barbarians.»

By the time she’d been fastened into torque and bracelets of gold delicately wrought to fit slender throat and limbs, Anya was anxious to meet the knight sent to honour her nephew. Anxious — and afraid.

She bent to kiss the infant nursing at the breast of a wet nurse. None would believe her tale of the child’s birth even should she relate it, so she had not spoken of what she’d seen. Straightening her mantle, she proceeded down the four flights of stairs to the castle’s great hall. Conscious that this would be her first appearance as the O’Brion leader, she held her head high and her shoulders straight, determined to make her ancestors proud.

Surely the whole army had turned out to meet the newcomer! The hall was packed with men milling about, pounding each other on the back, elbowing each other to silence as she entered. Her father and brother would have been right there with them, pounding and shouting.

She swallowed hard as the room silenced. Breeda held the train of her striped gown from the flagstone floor. No rushes rotted under the toes of the O’Brion ladies these days. The silence continued as Anya climbed to the dais where her father, and later, her brother, had sat at the head table. Two ornately carved, high-backed chairs faced the hall, with the enormous hearth at their backs.

Garvan, as her brother’s best friend and chief warrior, dropped to one knee and held his blade across his chest, declaring his fealty to the O’Brions, if not necessarily to her. Behind him, all the other men did the same. Except one.

Taller than any other man in the hall, wider of shoulder, an auburn-haired stranger in fur-lined mantle stood in the shadows of the hearth, watching her as if she were some new form of animal, not quite cat or dog. Anya wished she’d worn her hair up so she might look older and more commanding, but she’d been in a hurry — to meet this disrespectful oaf?

Instead of wearing his sword belted at his side, she could see he wore his weapon hung over his back like an uncivilized churl, despite all his finery. And his clothing was very grand, indeed, although not as fine as the form that wore it.

Realizing she stared, Anya settled into Maeve’s slightly smaller chair and beckoned the newcomer to approach the dais. She spoke three languages. She hoped he spoke at least one of them.

He stepped from the shadows of the hearth into the light of the candlelit iron chandelier and made his bow, not quite so courtly a one as Garvan’s, but fair enough. When he straightened, the light fell full on his face, and Anya inhaled with shock.

His jaw was scarred in the same manner as the vision she’d seen last night over the cradle. His stature was as broad and tall as she remembered. What meant this? Was he a ghost? Or a portent?

She had the urge to reach out and touch him, to test his reality, but that would cause others to wonder if she’d lost her mind. Her grip tightened on the gilded chair arms. She wore a short sword in her girdle, and her father’s spear leaned against his chair. Her dream world clashed with reality. She was trained to face threats with weapon in hand, but she had seen this man weep for the child.

Deciding she did not act from a position of strength, she waited silently, as taught, learning all she could before showing her hand.

«Your name?» she asked in the language of her father’s Irish ancestors.

The handsome stranger hesitated at her question, as if considering how much truth to offer. Then bowing his head with respect, he replied, «Finn mac Connell, my lady.»

He spoke the old language and used the old name of mac Connell, son of Connell. Connells were once legendary gods and kings to whom the O’Brions had sworn fealty. These days, simmering enmity separated their descendants.

«I see,» she said coolly, although her thoughts raced ahead of her to dire situations that might require that the King place an enemy in her father’s stronghold. Or did the stranger lie? «Did His Majesty send a message with you?»

Again, the hesitation, as if he pondered every word before speaking it. She did not trust a man who could not speak from the heart. And she could not trust a man who had appeared in a vision, like one of the elusive, ever mischievous, Good Neighbours.

«His Majesty wishes to show his friendship for the new King of the O’Brions, and to offer his protection. I am at your service, my lady,» he finally replied with bold authority.

In this, she believed him. The vision had watched over the babe with tenderness. For all she knew, the next king of the O’Brions was fae born, since he was most certainly not Maeve’s. It did not matter. The child was all that stood between her clan and destruction. He needed all the protection she could summon.

She must see the boy christened immediately.

«Garvan.» She turned to the captain of her small army. «Have we a place for the King’s man?»

Garvan stepped forwards eagerly. Before he could say aye, the stranger had placed himself between Anya and her knight quicker than she could think.

She wrapped her fingers around the dirk in her belt and regarded his broad back. Did he think her so helpless that she could not stop him? Or did showing her his back mean he trusted her?

«My place is to serve the boy,» Finn declared firmly. «I will guard him with my life, but I will not guard him from the bottom of a mountain of stones. My place is beside him.»

Garvan’s hand went to his sword hilt. Finn merely crossed his massive arms and stood like the mountain of stones he scorned. There would be violence if Anya did not interfere. Did she side with her brother’s friend or a stranger?

Garvan’s men had not been able to protect her father or her brother. What chance did an infant have in their care? She had no reason not trust the vision who had wept over an infant. Yet.

«Pax,» Anya said softly, rising from her chair. «We have a funeral and a christening for which to prepare. If the High King sees fit to send his man here, let the mac Connell take his place on the landing. For now, the babe stays with his wet nurse in the women’s quarters, with me.»

Calling for the priest, she swept past the roomful of towering soldiers, aware that the largest of them all followed her to the stairwell.

The haughty wench hadn’t even introduced herself, Finn recalled in amusement, watching the O’Brion princess carry his son down a chapel aisle to the waiting priest. He’d learned her name, of course, but name and title were unimportant in comparison to the woman who wore them. Before he left, he needed to know she could defend and care for the boy.

Anya O’Brion’s temerity alone ought to terrify half the men in the land. She’d stood at the head of a hall full of armed soldiers and commanded respect like a warrior queen, instead of a petite princess. Standing to one side of the altar so he might observe all who entered, Finn hid his grin. Even the goddess Brigid must approve of a woman who could slay grown men with her flashing eyes.

In his time, he’d left worship to the women. That men now commanded the sacred waters and prayed to male gods did not bother him. What bothered him was the tension he sensed in the chapel as Princess Anya kneeled before the priest, holding his son. They doubted her ability to lead them or protect their king — against what enemy?

Was this the price the Old Ones commanded for providing his son the home he deserved — knowing the boy must fight for his place? The Others did not speak plainly but left the consequences of Finn’s actions on his shoulders. He supposed they would smite him dead if he did not obey, but as far as Finn was concerned, he was already dead. He’d died with Niamh.

He glanced at the colourful glass in the chapel windows and wished it gone so he could see outside. How could a man protect his kin if he could not see all the land around him?

Hearing the thunder of hooves, he stepped from the shadows of the altar to stand directly behind the Princess, his sword and his knife crossed over his chest in warning.

The audience gasped at his warlike action, but in the next instant, others heard what he had. The men pushed for the exit, heading for the ramparts, Finn hoped.

«I christen thee Ardal Patrick Connor O’Brion, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,» the priest intoned, blithely ignoring the departing soldiers.

Finn did not recognize the name Patrick, but Ardal was a fine old name, and Connor was fitting for the son of a king. Conn was the origin of his own name. The Princess had chosen well. Now that the naming was done.

Finn grabbed the lady’s arm and hauled her from the floor. «Upstairs, now,» he ordered.

Holding the babe, she could not reach for her knife, although he saw murder in her glare. She had eyes the colour of emeralds and hair of the finest flax. And a glower that would pierce stone walls. «Release me,» she whispered harshly.

«After I’m seeing you up the stairs, where no man can go without dying on my blade.» With determination, he rushed her down the aisle.

Rather than submit to the indignity of struggling with him, she hurried ahead as if fleeing the chapel were her idea. She shielded the boy with her heavy mantle as she walked, so Finn approved.