Séanat was as fierce in love as she was in battle. She would not give way even when he pulled her to her knees and embraced her with all his body, chest and hip and thigh. It was she who bore him down to the earth, she who straddled him and unlaced the hardened leather of his cuirass, casting it aside. Only when she sought to remove his tunic was she forced to let him join in, and then it was an easy thing to strip her of her armour and shirt and breeches until he and Séanat lay naked together.

Her body was a glorious thing, lean and muscular yet blessed with the delight of sweetly curved breasts and thighs made to rock a man to blissful release. Her skin was scarred and yet as soft as lambskin where no blade had touched it, fair and freckled and exquisitely responsive to his caresses.

When he would have rolled her on to her back, she resisted with the growl of a she-wolf and mounted him. She hesitated, looked again into his eyes, and impaled herself on him, gasping in astonishment and pleasure.

Aodhan understood the gift she had given him. She had never taken a man into herself before, yet she kept nothing back, holding him and then releasing him again with a fervour that matched his own. He raised himself up to take her brown, peaked nipple into his mouth, and she flung back her head, her loosened hair cascading over her shoulders and sweeping the earth.

Glorious it was when she cried out, bucking as the pleasure took her and carried her into realms of light and joy. Aodhan followed before his heart could beat again, and for the first time since his earliest youth he knew how it felt to be whole.

He tried to keep Séanat with him after it was finished, but she was having none of it. She lifted herself and swung away without a lover’s endearment. She walked across the clearing, snatching up her forgotten cloak as she passed by.

Aodhan meant to stay where he was, as stubborn as she, unwilling to admit to more than a fleeting pleasure. He should be shamed by his need, as she was.

But he rose, shook the leaves from his body, and went after her. She stood facing the forest where it grew dark with secrets, where any man might hide forever.

«A chuisle,» he said.

She stiffened. «Don’t be calling me such things.»

«Would you have me curse you, a chroi?» He moved so near that he could feel the warmth of her skin. «What would you have me call you?»

«Nothing but my name.»

She shifted, and the cloak slid from her shoulders. He caught it and laid it over her, drawing it close around her neck. «Look at me, Séanat.»

«Leave me in peace!»

«How can I do such a thing when you have said I must give myself into your keeping?»

She turned about, despair in her eyes. «Dress yourself,» she said, «but leave your armour behind. We go to the High King.»

It was exactly what Aodhan had hoped. He nodded and returned to his discarded clothing, careful not to let Séanat see that he was pleased. not only to be alive, not only to have enjoyed her, but to know he would soon have his honour back again.

All the camp was rejoicing. Warriors sang of their exploits and drank sweet mead and ale until they staggered and fell into fits of laughter; women grinned as they filled bowls with great ladlefuls of stew; horses stomped and whinnied, pigs squealed and banners snapped in the sharp, bitter air.

Séanat would have given everything she had to join her sisters where they sat around a fire with the other warriors, singing songs of victory in high, sweet voices. The spears she carried over her shoulders, Goibhniu’s finest; the sword she had won with her own skill when she was barely more than a child; her armour and her finely wrought golden helm — all these, and more, she would have surrendered to change what had happened the night before.

But there was no going back. No undoing what had been done, no leaving Aodhan to his death.

The terrible thing was that she knew she could never have done aught but save him, not even had the Morrígan herself appeared to forbid it.

Forgive me.

«Where are we going?» Aodhan asked softly at her shoulder.

«Hold your tongue,» she whispered. «It is not for you to speak, but to be humble and silent.»

She thought she heard him laugh, but the sound was quickly gone. Here he was surrounded by those who would cheerfully have killed him had they met him on the battlefield or found him alone afterwards. There were doubtless many who would still be glad to spit him on the end of a sword. Ruadán’s betrayal had not been forgotten.

But they would not do so as long as she vouched for him and staked her honour upon his behaviour.

«Séanat!»

Niamh, her black hair flying loose behind her, ran up to Séanat with a cry of relief and joy. She embraced Séanat with her strong arms, kissed her cheeks and stood back, laughing.

«We thought you dead!» she said.

«You thought her dead, Niamh,» Ríona drawled, coming up behind her. «I always knew she would return.»

Niamh made a face and embraced Séanat again. «How many did you slay?» she asked breathlessly. «I killed ten, and I would have slain four more if only»—

«Don’t believe her,» Ríona said, crossing her arms across her chest. «She always»— She broke off, looking over Séanat’s shoulder. «What’s this?»

Both women stared at Aodhan. He bowed and stood quietly under their inspection.

«I am looking for the Ard Rí,» Séanat said quickly.

But Ríona was not to be distracted. «I do not know you, stranger,» she said to Aodhan. «From which fine do you come?»

«Do you forget the laws of hospitality?» Séanat snapped. «He is my guest.»

There was nothing Ríona could say to that. She frowned and pulled Niamh aside.

«Lugh is in his tent,» Ríona said.

«Very well,» Séanat said.

As she began to walk away, Aodhan at her heels, she heard Niamh’s whisper. «She is not herself. What can be wrong? Who is he?»

They can feel it, Séanat thought. They know he is not of the Tuatha Dé.

And indeed it seemed as if every man and woman they passed — cooks and smiths over their fires, warriors and pages, healers and poets — turned to look as she made her way to the great tent in the centre of the camp. Still, no one stopped her, nor spoke except to welcome her back. Perhaps it was only her imagination that their eyes followed her when she stopped before the warriors who guarded the new High King.

«Cathal,» she said, nodding to the larger man. «Fearghus. Will you ask the Ard Rí if Séanat of the Daughters of the Morrígan may speak with him?»

«Our king rests,» Cathal said. He looked at Aodhan. «Is this an urgent matter?»

Urgent? She might go to one of Lugh’s lieutenants and report what she had done. She might hope that Brighid would soon return from her mourning to speak for her. But it was Lugh to whom she must appeal, Lugh who had slain his own Fomóiri grandfather to save the Tuatha Dé.

«I ask to see him,» she said.

The warrior turned, drew back the tent’s flap and went inside. Séanat heard low voices, and then Cathal came out again.

«The Ard Rí will see you,» he said gruffly, with another long look at Aodhan.

Séanat unslung the spears from over her shoulder and removed her sword and dagger, leaving them with Fearghus as custom dictated. Cathal nodded, and Séanat lifted the flap.

Lugh sat on a stool padded thickly with sheepskin, deep in conversation with his uncle Goibhniu, the powerful smith of the Tuatha Dé. Both men looked up as Séanat and Aodhan entered.

«Séanat,» Lugh said. His golden ha ir was as bright as ever, his eyes as blue, but his forehead was streaked with blood and the cuirass he still wore was slashed and dented. «What do you ask of me?»

His weariness shamed her. «My lord,» she said, hesitating. «I ask a hearing.»

«For what purpose?» Goibhniu said. He looked, narrow-eyed, at Aodhan. «Who is this boy?»

«My lords,» Séanat said, «he is Aodhan. I have brought him under my protection.»

«Your protection?» Goibhniu said. «Why should he need»—

Lugh raised his hand, and the smith fell silent. There was a coldness in the High King’s face that chilled Séanat’s blood. «I see why,» he said. «Come forwards, Aodhan.»

Aodhan obeyed and bowed deeply. «My Lord King.»

«Your king is dead.»

Straightening, Aodhan met Lugh’s eyes without fear. «Many I knew are dead, or driven into the sea.»

«Fomóiri,» Goibhniu growled. He began to rise, but once again Lugh stopped him.

«Why is he here?» Lugh asked. «Why have you brought an enemy among us?»

Séanat would not tell him of Brighid’s challenge. She would not lay any responsibility upon the lady when it had been her choice and no one else’s.

«I came upon him in the forest,» she said. «He fought fairly and with honour. I spared him.»

«And brought him here?» Goibhniu demanded. «Have you so soon forgotten Ruadán?»

«I have not forgotten, my lord. But the Fomóiri are no longer a threat to us. They will not return. And Aodhan.» She took a deep breath. «It may be he is like the Ard Rí, as much of the Tuatha Dé as the Fomóiri.»

Lugh rose. «Is this your claim, Aodhan?» he asked.

«I do not know, my lord,» Aodhan said. «I was fostered to Fomóiri. I was raised as one, and fought for them. For this I make no apology.»

Goibhniu growled again. «You must not permit this serpent in our midst, nephew,» he said.

Séanat held her breath. Lugh was staring at her again, weighing, judging. She had offered her hospitality to Aodhan, which could not be withdrawn. He had three choices: to kill Aodhan, compelling her to defend him unto death, even against the whole of the Tuatha Dé; to exile them both; or to accept her word of honour that Aodhan would do no harm. She would not have blamed him if he had chosen the easiest way: exile.

But he sighed and shook his head. «I do not understand you, Séanat,» he said. «It is not like the Daughters to show mercy in battle. If you have lost your taste for fighting.»

«Never, my lord!»

He searched her face again. «If our enemies still had the means and will to fight, I would not be lenient. But my judgment is this: he is yours, and whatever he does is on your head. You will face his punishment should he flout our hospitality.»

It was the very best Séanat could have expected. She bowed low, avoiding Goibhniu’s piercing stare, and took Aodhan’s arm. He paused, gave a bow of his own, and followed her out of the tent.

«My thanks, Séanat,» he said.

She continued towards the Daughters’ tents without stopping. «You may not share our quarters,» she said. «My sisters will not accept you easily. You may sleep by the fire outside, with the hounds.»

«Am I your hound, Séanat? Am I permitted to go freely about the camp if I wear your collar?»

His quiet mockery stung worse than any wound. «I have no use for collars. Your honour binds you, as mine does myself. I will see that you have blankets and food and ale.»

«But not your company?»

She gritted her teeth and didn’t answer. She pointed out the fire to him, where a pair of Daughters, Brónach and Úna, were warming their hands and talking quietly.

«This is Aodhan,» she said without preamble. «He is my guest. I offer him the hospitality of our fire and a share of our food.»

The Daughters exchanged glances, but neither challenged her words. Séanat nodded to Aodhan, went on to the tent and gathered up her blankets. By the time she brought them back to the fireside, Aodhan was seated and the Daughters were walking away, casting sharp glances over their shoulders.

«It seems they care no more for my company than you,» he said.

Séanat grunted. «They spend little time with men.»

«Are you forbidden to take lovers then?»

Her skin grew hot. «Not forbidden. It is easier when.» Show no weakness. «You are not my lover, but my guest.»

«Will you tell them what you told the Ard Rí?»

Never had Séanat had cause to lie to her sisters. But she had lied to Lugh when she’d said Aodhan had fought with honour. He had not fought at all.

But to tell them that he was Fomóir, in every way that mattered.

«Let them think what they will,» she said harshly. «Stay here. I will bring meat.»

He stayed, and afterwards she spent a little time sitting and eating with him to show that he was, indeed, her guest and not to be troubled. She knew how easily rumours flew around any war camp, and she wanted his position secure before the questions came.