Béibhinn only realised that she was falling asleep when her chin hit her chest, jarring her back to consciousness.

The fire makes the hall terribly warm, she thought, warm and comfortable mingling with the sweet notes of Ailbhe's music which wrapped around her. Like a great soft blanket... warm..and...

She dragged her eyes open again, numbing exhaustion creeping through her limbs. Around her she could see many other occupants of the hall sleeping already. Heads nodding or laid on tables, long hair splayed amid the dishes.

Strange, something whispered in her mind, some uneasy sense of things gone awry; but was what she saw real? Or just some muddled dream?

The delightful music seemed to come from a long distance away, a silver thread drifting through the mists and winding...itself...in..to...dre..ea..am..ss...

Stay awake! Béibhinn shook her head. It fell down again, to too heavy for her neck to support.

There is some evil at work here, the whispers told her dimly. She knew, she knew, but to close her eyes as the music demanded was so delightful...to hold them open almost impossible..so sweet to drift off into that warm dreamland...No!

Blurry figures filled the hall, shapes that crept from end to end amid the tables. Béibhinn struggled to focus her eyes and could not. The harp music filled her ears, pressing about her her shoulders as a deadly weight; until her whole mind was full of the rippling notes. Thoughts thick and useless, eyes that could not see, a slave who could not resist. She was falling, sliding, with nothing to hold except the music.

Behind closed eyes one corner of Béibhinn's soul rebelled. Flailing against its entrapment, deep in the haze it began to sing.

Dóchas linn Naomh Pádraig, Aspail mór na hEireann...the words that slipped in and out of her thoughts seemed fuzzy at first, sliding from her grasp, tangling with the strange things of sleep.

..ainm óireac gléighill, solas mór as tsaol é. D'inis sé soiscéal grá dúinn, d'annaoin blíanta i ngéibhinn...

But they grew stronger, clearer, even as Saint Patrick's Easter fire had spread, burning off the mists so long ago

...grá mór mac na páirte, d'fhuscaill các ón daorbhrid,

With a painful effort, Béibhinn forced her eyes open. But beholding the sight before her, horror stiffened all her limbs

The harp music still wafted about the hall, a hall filled with motionless figures, as though only corpses sat at table. The blurred creatures of her dreams solidified into bearded men, wrapped in brown cloaks, slipping about the hall, firelight glinting on their swords and axes.

Choking a scream Béibhinn turned to Uncail Fiach, but beheld only Ailbhe at her side, pale in the gloaming, smiling as she played her graven harp.

Then huge arms caught Béibhinn from behind and dragged her back. Béibhinn kicked at the captor, scratching the arms, elbowing, screaming wildly. A hand came over her mouth and she bit down into it. Dropped to the floor a moment then caught again. Something hit her head, sending her reeling. But only dimly aware of the pain, she fought on madly. Twisting, shrieking, strugg - Ailbhe stepped calmly into the fracas and caught her under the chin.

Only one white finger hooked under Béibhinn's jaw, but it was enough to drag her up. Up, up still higher. The choking sensation spread down her neck, leaving her twisting, a fish on a line, unable to either kick Ailbhe or catch her a blow.

"Cáilleach!" she gasped, "Let me - go. You - "

A cloth filled her mouth, stifling sound.

"You shall come with us now," said the pale lady, "like a good girl." a cold sparkling mirth danced in her eyes.

Béibhinn moved to strike her arm, but her own arms would no longer move. Pulling, she realised her hands were bound. The effort made her choke.

Ailbhe watched her struggle for breath, her expression unchanged. The she placed one long hand between Béibhinn's shoulders and propelled her before her out the door.

****

How long they had been riding now Béibhinn could not even try to guess. Years it might as well have been, stumbling through the darkness, surrounded by the brigands.

The knots with which Ailbhe had bound her to the pony cut deeper into her wrists with every jolt of the animal. Béibhinn set her teeth, barely able to contain the hot pricking behind her eyes.

At first she had screamed, or tried to. Howling and yelling through the cloth until light headed with suffocation. And Ailbhe had ridden calmly beside her, serene and elegant in the gloom. And nobody had come.

What of Uncail Fiach? An tUaisle Caoimhín? Senen? Domhnall? Sickening fear lay about Béibhinn's heart when she thought of them. Were they yet alive? She had seen no blood on the blades of the fianna. But she had seen but little of the hall before Ailbhe caught her. Please God, let them be alive. A Mhuire máthair - A fresh jolt tightening the knots recalled her and her own danger struck her afresh.

It was to the mountain they rode, a waxing gibbus moon just hovering above its highest peak.

Lair of An Beitheach. And she alone.

Béibinn's throat tightened, the will to jump from the pony striking her hard. She would fall, yes, with the ropes, and perhaps the pony also. Perhaps beneath Ailbhe's pony. But was that not better than falling into An Beitheach's hands? Was it not justified?

The nearness of the deed terrified her, as though death had come and caught her hand in the shadows of the wooded path.

Then Béibhinn looked up. In the gloom above the mountain a shimmering point of silver pierced the dark. The North star.

Some of the blind desperation ebbed away.Though her earthly family were far from her, she had another mother. Another father too. One who ruled the Heavens and all beneath it. An Bheitheach was not greater than He.

"Help," whispered Béibhinn.

Then all the terror and loss spilled over into silent tears.

***

The procession of ponies followed a track that dipped into a broad stoney river. Its water silver and black beneath the moon. They splashed along it for some distance, the ponies stumbling on the rocks. Then up a lesser tributary they went and out upon a gravelly bank.

The way they now followed, one by one, was but a deer path, winding up between the trees, half river itself, all the water of the mountain came rushing down it, laughing in the dark through grass and brambles that tore at clothes and skin.

On they rode, on and on, the branches never tiring of scratching Béibhinn's face, though she leaned down deep by Fanlóg's neck, the ride reminding her painfully of days hunting with her family, and tales around the fire to follow that night.

Suddenly the way, which had been climbing steadily, rose more sharply. Fanlóg stumbling, she whispered assurances she did not feel and rubbed her bound hands on what she could reach of his neck.

Beech trees now it was, and in the murk she could see the pony in front climbing the slope, at an angle which seemed sure to send his rider sliding off backwards on top of them.

More than that Béibhinn did not see. For now Fanlóg was also climbing, up through the forest on precipitous paths, low hung with grabbing branches, and Béibhinn leaned down almost to his knees, legs aching, as they continued into the mountain's heights.

Before her legs gave way entirely, the path bucked over a bank and then suddenly out on a broad, clear, flat track, hemmed by dark woods on either side.

Cantering along this brazenly they skirted the mountain's shoulders until about a bend the forest dropped away, giving a sweeping vista of countryside grey beneath the moon.

Béibhinn strained her eyes as they rushed past, aching to catch just one glimpse of the distant hill where her family dwelt, sleeping now, unknowing. But the ponies galloped on, sweeping into forestry again. Twisting in the saddle she tried to see just an instant more - but as she turned she saw instead a fearful thing.

Ailbhe had gone.