The feasting hall was full of warriors, both men and women, moving in and out between that building and the training grounds and stables. Emery trembled slightly as she walked through them, past the fire pit full of its crackling flames. Her stomach was in knots, knowing what was happening was more grave than she'd hoped. The Red Branch Knights nodded toward her when she passed, and so did many of the others, knowing her by this time; all were respectful, unlike Cú Roí's men had been. Keltar led her through the others, then waved a hand toward the platform at the end, where Cullen stood, waiting.

Emery's breath caught. He was staring right at her, and he was in full battle regalia: his brass-scaled breastplate over a silvery mail which itself was over a forest green tunic; dark leather breeches, boots strapped up to the knees with brass plates over his shins; in place of a cloak, he had only a bright red tartan, pulled over his shoulders and close around his upper body before being tucked into a belt so as not to be a hindrance. Leather straps crossed his chest, holding his weapons--Emery spotted his Sword of Light in the mix, as well as Gáe Bulg secured at his back. That exacerbated Emery's anxiety--that spear was one serious weapon; if Cullen felt the need to bring it, then surely this fight must be a brutal one. She was glad he had it, though, for his own safety. As for the rest of his accouterments, he wore rather regal-looking items that Emery had never seen on him before, even at Cú Roí's castle: a dog-headed brooch, shining copper, with a red gemstone glittering as its eye, cinched his tartan at his neck; a brass torque hung around his throat, open at the front; brass cuffs encircled his wrists, and at his shoulders were plates of the same material, with small hanging rings that clinked softly as he moved. Under one arm, he held a brass helmet, intricately engraved, which would hang down to protect his neck when he wore it. But bare-headed as he was, now, Emery saw his deep reddish hair was pulled along the top in one thick sweep, the sides of his head shaved up around his ears, and when he turned to nod at Keltar, she saw that he had a knot of braids at the back of his nape.

He watched her as she approached, the deep green of his eyes more vibrant than she believed she'd seen before. Or maybe she was just paying more attention. His sculpted features--the straight bridge of his nose, the strong sweep of his jaw, the smooth high forehead, the furrowed brow--were more attractive than ever, and Emery felt as if she was actually seeing him for the first time, with the butterflies to match.

All too aware that she looked like nothing special, Emery felt herself warm when he indicated the back room with a wave of his hand, and she followed him without any complaint, only too happy to escape the eyes of any who might be watching.

"I knew, Emery," he said immediately, the moment they'd entered that chamber and he'd turned to face her, "but not until after we'd met by the river."

Still attempting to regain her confidence at seeing him the way he was, now, Emery couldn't understand him. "You--you knew what? I don't--"

"It was I who entrusted you to Forgall, all those years ago."

He seemed agitated, impatient, and that flustered Emery as well. "Wait. You talked to Cathbad, didn't you? He told you what I know, what happened--"

"And there is little time, now, to discuss it, but I assure you, I did not know you were the child I'd given Forgall that night until you brought me to the tower, and by that time--"

"What difference does it make?" Emery cried, surprising him as well as herself.

Cullen stared at her in shock. His lips moved as if he was unsure what to say, but he soon admitted, "Perhaps none. Whether I'd known or not, I would have wanted you. But I might have exercised more caution had I known you were that child. I might have . . . no. You are right. By the time I realized you were meant for the Gods, my desire was unmasterable. I wouldn't have turned back even had I wanted to try."

Emery's chest fluttered when he mentioned his desire, but her words hid her, as they too often did: "We were both stupid, then. Look at everything our choices have done to us."

A sudden noise from the hall caused Cullen to look toward the doorway, then back to her. He sighed, and Emery sensed in that sigh something she didn't want to hear. She was afraid. "I stand defeated, Lady," he said, raising his free arm and lowering it again in a gesture of hopelessness. "I know not how to force affection, nor would I want it if it were false. I will never break the vows I made at Tara, though it may be wrong to expect the same from you. Should I return--"

"No!" The force of her word stopped him, but Emery knew that she had little time, and what she'd not known how to say had to be said, or she might never get the chance. What were the right words? "I've--I've been . . . afraid," she said at last, her voice small, so small against the roar of her thoughts.

Cullen looked at her sternly. "Of me?" he asked quietly.

"No . . ." Emery couldn't stop her voice from shaking, but she had to tell him. She looked down at the ground; it was easier that way. "Afraid that--that I can't be her. I can't be Emer. And that once you find out I'm not her, you . . . you won't want me, anymore."

Several heavy seconds swam by, so painful Emery didn't know if she could bear them. But then Cullen did something unexpected--he gave a short, bitter laugh, and Emery raised her head to meet his gaze, which was not mocking but difficult to read, some mix of relief and sadness. The girl shook her head, perplexed. "Aren't we foolish, then? Haven't I been afraid this whole time, as well? That as you can't remember why you wanted me, you no longer do?"

Emery stood in shock, her chest swelling with unendurable emotion. So much hovered in the space between them, but another shout from the hall was suddenly followed by a voice at the door, calling for Cullen.

Oh, how she wanted him to stay, but he had to go; they were desperate for him, even as she was. He took a step toward her, hesitated, then backed up and pushed his helmet onto his head. "You are every bit of her, my Lady. You are my Emer, though you don't remember." And then he turned and strode from the room, calling "Come, we ride!" to those assembled beyond, leaving Emery alone and more overwhelmed than ever.

The hours passed at an excruciating pace. All the men and warrior women had gone, save for a few soldiers left to guard the gates of Dun-Dealgan, and Emery heard from those with whom she spoke that the battle was taking place far beyond the pastures where the residents normally brought their animals for grazing. There were hills in the distance, visible from the watchtowers, and in a valley beyond was where the Munstermen were said to have gathered. If Emery was quiet--so quiet--and the breeze blew the right way, she thought she could hear faint cries and clashing weapons. But that could've also been her imagination.

She and Tess did their best to occupy themselves, though both were frantic with worry. Emery kept wishing she could've gone with them but knew she would've been a hindrance to Cullen. Toward late afternoon, she and Tess heated water and filled the tub so Emery could wash the poultice from her body. She felt as well as if everything at Luglochta Loga had never happened, but she was riddled with so much anxiety that she almost would've preferred the terror of The Dark Man to the fear she felt for Cullen. She and Tess talked as much as they could to attempt to distract themselves. Tess told Emery what Cathbad had told her about Cú Roí's son, Lugaid, who was the one to gather the chieftains of Munster for attack in order to avenge his father's death. She said that battles lasted a few hours, usually, which meant that by the end of the day, they'd hopefully hear news of what had happened. The druid had gone to battle, as well, so Tess had anxiety equal to Emery's.

As twilight fell, the agony of not knowing drew to its maddening peak, and when at last the call of the war instrument, the carnyx--a long, thin, vertical brass instrument with the head of a serpent that rose high above to let out its bellow--echoed from beyond Dun-Dealgan, every villager in the hillfort hurried to the gates. Emery herself threw only a fur cloak over the tunic she'd put on after her bath, having been unable to bring herself to go to any more trouble, and slipped into her leather boots. Then she joined Tess and, together, they ran to the gates with everyone else.

It was chaos, there. The warriors were filing through the open doors, many wounded, many more unrecognizable, covered in blood and mud and warpaint, but both girls picked up from the positive rising cheers as well as the rippling rumors spreading throughout the crowds that the battle had gone their way, that they'd won, that Munster had been defeated!

But where was Cullen? In the mass of people and horses, in the dim of the twilight and the disorienting fires beginning to be lit, and the noise and the shouting and the cries and the rushing around, Emery became separated from Tess, but she suddenly found herself bumping up against someone she knew--Lóegaire. He was exhausted and haphazard, but he looked to be in once piece, and he greeted Emery with a cheer and a smile. But she was uninterested in him. "Where's Cullen?" she cried, breathless, yelling above the noise. "Where is he?"

"Ah!" Lóegaire cried. "Lady, we had to leave him on the battlefield." He said more, though his words were drowned somewhat, and what Emery heard was "--dead for all we know!"

"What?!" Emery's exclamation was lost in noise. "Dead?"

Lóegaire's nodding head terrified her. How could he be so nonchalant? Cullen couldn't be dead! Not him! All these useless men survived, but he hadn't? No. She couldn't believe it. She had to know, to see for herself. But the gates--she looked frantically to the gates. They were so crowded, and she'd never get out of them, even on horseback. Unless . . .

Within as short a time as possible, Emery was on the back of Liath Macha, who'd been resting comfortably in his stall in the stables, and while Edan and others had attempted to stop her, once they saw Lugh's Spear in her hand, aimed at them, they quickly backed away. In such a manner, Emery managed to part the crowds at the gates with ease, and the guards and soldiers assembled as watch were either too confused or too fearful of the legendary fiery-tipped spear to attempt to stop her. There was much more to worry about, surely, than a crazy young woman trying to get out of Dun-Dealgan.

Like fury, Emery galloped away from the hillfort, down the path and across the pastures, competing with the setting sun as it shimmered toward the horizon. The exhilaration of the ride, and the galvanization of actually doing something other than sitting around and waiting, was absolutely freeing. Emery had never in all her life experienced such freedom, and even as she rode with the terrifying thought of Cullen being dead on that battlefield (not to mention what other things she might encounter when she got there), the divine purpose that had inspired her to motion was surely the most beautiful thing she'd ever known. She'd never been so sure of anything as she was that she was doing what needed to be done, and the liquid motions of the animal beneath her moving in sync with her body was all the confirmation she needed. This sort of riding--she knew it. And Lugh's Spear was comfortable in her hand while the other held Liath Macha's mane.

She instinctively knew where to go, or maybe her horse knew where to find his master—whatever the reason, at the speed they'd gone, they reached the battlefield before the sun had set. Emery immediately knew the low-lying plain between the hills to be the site of the violence. Bodies were everywhere, stretched for probably a mile, though she was grateful that, for the most part, they were indistinguishable dark mounds in the falling shadows cast by the dying light. No figures of human size seemed to move amongst the corpses, though birds and perhaps other animals had begun to slink in from the surrounding forests, ready to scavenge. If she'd been able to see what lay in the grasses, perhaps Emery would have turned around, and even as she slowed Liath Macha to a walk, she began to wonder how in the world she'd find Cullen if he were, as Lóegaire had said, dead. But she couldn't believe he was. She would've felt his death; she was sure of it. And even as her heart began to sink at the thought of searching the fields, she spotted in the strange dusky glimmer, a man emerge from the fringe of trees to her right.

He was about a hundred feet away, near enough that he caught sight of her and stopped, startled. Emery herself slid from Liath Macha, Lugh's Spear in her hand, and stood staring at him. Cullen was bare-chested and dripping wet, his hands clutching a bundle of items that were surely his clothing and armor. He had only a leather strap across his shoulder and down around his side, his sword and spear attached, and Emery marveled at the blue tattoos swirling across his muscular body. Her heart pounding, the girl took several steps toward him, and he started toward her, but just at that moment, another figure leapt from the forest behind Cullen and began running at him.

"No!" Emery cried as the stranger drew his sword, but there was no time. Raising her spear above her head, the girl cried out for Cullen to move and without any reservation whatsoever threw the flaming weapon through the darkening air, where it cut the shadow like a comet and met its end in the throat of the man she'd intended it to hit.

It had all happened so quickly and so naturally that Emery was left entirely amazed at her own actions. Cullen turned to look briefly at the fallen man behind him, then looked back to Emery and closed the distance between them. Standing before her, his body practically steaming as the water evaporated from him, he gazed at her incredulously, questioningly.

Emery was panting. She couldn't believe what had just happened--what was happening even then. But Cullen was alive, and he was standing right in front of her. "I--I thought--Lóegaire said you were dead--"

"I am not," Cullen said with all the ridiculous obviousness of one who has no idea what to say. The way he looked at Emery excited and terrified her. "You came all this way, alone?" She nodded, flustered that her breath was so audible. "I'll have the heads of whoever let you out--"

But she didn't let him finish, instead grabbing hold of the leather strap across his chest and pulling him toward her, bringing their bodies against one another. Cullen's eyes, copper-shot, searched her own for understanding, for permission, and in answer to every question, she rose to meet his lips with her own. All at once he dropped whatever was in his arms and encircled her with them, his hands at her back and up in her waves of hair, his mouth against hers, tongues and teeth, down her neck, across her collarbone. Emery was lost in his touch, in his fervency, in that intensity that had unsettled her for so long, and she surfaced from the dream only when Cullen spoke hot words at her ear, about taking her home.

Emery forced herself to pull back just enough, relishing the tremor in his breath, the rapture in his handsome face. Visions of Tara playing in her thoughts, she leaned into him, pressed her palms against his chest. "Not yet," she whispered, shivering. "I am your wife, aren't I?"

Hesitating only for a moment, Cullen held her face and kissed her again. Then his mouth was at her throat, his fingers loosening the tie of her fur cloak, which fell to the ground. And as he lay her down upon it, the last light of the sun glowing on their fair skin, the body of the dead man beyond crackled quietly with the soft blue flames that had engulfed it.