I look back again and again in hopes of catching another glimpse of the long-haired lass whose red hair flung out behind her like a royal cloak. The sight of her stays in my head so that if I shut my eyes, I can still see her, clear as day. How straight she sat on horseback. She could be my height or taller. Those long, slim haunches clung so tightly to that lucky horse. From her clothing's stripe, she must be brehon or poet. And probably kin to the fire-cat Katlyne MacRoth who spit at me and cursed me and nightly haunts my dreams!

A hard whack upside one ear opens my eyes wide again. Da snarls at me. "What are ya, asleep at high noon? For that, you can take the nightwatch this evenin', owl-face. If I didn't know ya'r me own spawn I'd have taken ya fer a stinkin' Niafer!"

Keu, whose surprising arm now makes us half jesting half fearful call him Nuada, comes thundering to my defense. "He's dreaming of that redhead we saw back there. Who can blame him for that? He's a man, after all!"

I wish he hadna said that. Da shifts to peer at me sideways, then, gods save me, wriggles his hump-backed bulk around so that he can glare at me straight on. He rubs his beard.

"So he is. So he is! We'll have to be sure to find him a good match at Lugh's Fair then."

Ah, the Telltown weddings. "But what if they remember us from last year?" I protest with all kinds of strange excitements boiling through me at the thought of it all. I could be wed. Or dead.

Before we can talk more about it, we turn the last curve and there's the River Shannon in full sweet flow. The smell of roasting lamb greets us when we find our way to the hiding place where Hadaig waits. After a fine feast, we pass a wineskin round and plan for the next few days journey that will take us through Cill Dara and end up at Tara. A cunning plan it is indeed!

On nightwatch I circle our camp, wary of intruders and always wary of wolves. While I roam, with the fireflies twinkling all around and the Shannon singing softly close by, I think of what it would be like to marry the redhaired one. Or her cousin. Or both! Or neither. Remembering last Lughnasadh, I also remember the little dark-haired healer called Moss. To give Keu back his arm's strength and make him like Nuada of the old tales, she must have magic in her hands.

I have yet to feel a woman's caress on my skin or get a taste of berry red lips. I hug to my chest the only thing that has ever shared my bed, the soft leathern quiver of arrows I always have on me. I look up at the stars. Somewhere under these same stars perhaps my own true love also watches and waits.