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the fog.

3
    A Song at the Inn
    JENNA had just lit the candles on the shelves to either side of the fireplace. The sun was down or lowering—the rain persisted, and the sky slipped from the color of wet smoke to slate to coal as the interior of their house slowly darkened. Maeve was peeling potatoes; Jenna was carding wool. They both heard the sound of slowly moving hooves through the drumming of rain, and Kesh lifted his head from the floor and growled. Leather creaked, and there were footsteps on the flags outside the door. Someone knocked at the door and Kesh barked. Maeve looked at Jenna.
    “Mam, I forgot to tell you. There’s a tiarna who was at Tara’s . . .” Maeve set down her paring knife and went to the door, brushing at her apron. She opened the door. Mac Ard stood there, a darkness against the wet night.
    “I’m looking for Maeve Aoire and her daughter,” Mac Ard said. His voice was deep and gruff. “I was told this was their home.”
    “Aye, ’tis,” Maeve answered, and Jenna heard a strange, awed tone in her mam’s voice. “I’m Maeve Aoire, sir. Come in out of the wet, won’t you?” Maeve stood aside as the man ducked his head and entered. Kesh growled once, then slunk away toward the fire. “Jenna, put your coat on and take the tiarna’s horse out to the barn. At least it’ll be dry there. Go on with you, now.”
    By the time Jenna got back, Mac Ard was sitting at the table with a plate of boiled potatoes, mutton, and bread, and a mug of tea in front of him. Kesh sat at his feet, waiting for dropped crumbs. His boots and clóca were drying near the fire. Maeve sat across from him, but she wasn’t eating. Her face was pale, as if she might be frightened, and her hands were fisted on the table, fingers curled into palms. She glanced up as Jenna came through the door, shaking water from her hood and sleeves. “It’s not raining as hard as it was,” she said, wanting to break the silence. “I think it’ll stop soon.”
    Her mam simply nodded, as if she’d only half heard. Mac Ard had turned in his chair, the legs scraping across the floorboards. “Sit down, Jenna,” he said. “I’d like to talk with you.”
    Jenna glanced at her mam, who gave her a slight nod. Jenna didn’t sit, but went over to Maeve, standing behind her, and resting her hands on her Mam’s shoulders even as Maeve reached up to pat Jenna’s hand reassuringly. One corner of Mac Ard’s mouth lifted slightly under the beard, as if he found the sight amusing.
    “I didn’t expect to hear the surname Aoire, so many miles from the north,” he commented. He stabbed a potato with a fork, brought it to his mouth, and chewed. “It’s an uncommon name hereabouts, to be certain. Inishlander in origin.”
    “My husband was from the north,” Maeve answered. “From Inish Thuaidh.”
    “Husband?”
    “He’s dead almost seventeen years, Tiarna Mac Ard. Killed by bandits on the road.”
    Mac Ard nodded. He blinked, and the dark eyes seemed softer than they had a moment before. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, and Jenna thought she heard genuine sympathy in his voice. “For a woman as well-spoken and comely as yourself, he must have been an exceptional person for you to never have remarried. This is his daughter?”
    Maeve touched Jenna’s hands. “Aye. She was still a babe in arms when Niall was murdered.”
    Another nod. “Niall Aoire. Interesting. Niall’s not an Inish name, though. In fact, my great-uncle was named Niall, though he was a Mac Ard.” The tiarna sipped at the tea, leaning back in his chair. He seemed to be waiting, then took a long breath before continuing. “Four nights ago, I was standing on the tower of the Rí’s Keep in Lár Bhaile, when I saw colors flickering on the black waters of the lough. I looked up, and I could see the glow in the sky as well, to the north and west beyond the hills. They were nothing I’d ever seen before, but I’d heard them described, in all the old