Verica, Valeria and I exchange subtle glances until a soldier leads the two women away. Ursus questions me into the evening, but neither of us bends. He remains calm with me, in spite of the impasse. The Bear was never so kind to the enemy. And by my oath to Verica, I am that. The questioning ends when he takes a seat at his desk, and the same soldier returns to deliver me to my fate.

I am led to a cold tent where, at the flap, stand two broad-shouldered guards. One holds a quarterstaff, at the end of which hangs a lantern. Inside, I find Valeria and Verica and little else. There is a full water jar and some worn, bedding material. I greet them with a smile and a nod. I want them to know that I have no intention of going to Ebrauc, as Ursus has said. My destiny is my own, and I will not abide it being declared to me. Not by Ursus, not by my uncle, not by the Niafer, not by my own geis. Especially not now, in front of my princess and my old beer-mate - a friend who selfless aid has led her to this. But Valeria is as glib as always: "Your slaves, are we?"

I chortle with her. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, he didn't believe it." From Verica's expression, it doesn't. I kneel beside her and kiss her forehead. "We are going to Cean Tir, not Ebrauc," I insist, desperately fanning the flame of faith in Verica's heart.

I sit down with them, withdrawing Valeria's harp from my cloak. Ursus saw no harm in my keeping the simple cruit, so he granted it me. I tuck it into my arm and pluck the first few notes of a ballad Verica taught me at sea. The song is a beautiful lullaby, but haunting and disturbing, such that it could incite the cú-sídhe - the warriors of the Seven Tribes - to the fury of battle, even from across the sea. The Pictish druids had learned the art of the song from the Faery. I sing along with the enchanting notes, quietly at first. Unfamiliar with the language, I hum the tune, but I am joined quickly by Verica, who speaks the esoteric words clearly and confidently. Her mask of sorrow is shattered; color and mirth return to her face once again!

The guards outside the tent shift a bit, and our witching song ends abruptly. But it is not our song that vexes them. The rumble of pounding shields and foreign cries echoe from the distance. From the North. The Fortriu.