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gave him a claustrophobic feeling he didn’t care for. His route of retreat, if there ever had been one, was gone, and the only course for him now was forward. He said, “I want to return to my island and the time in which I was laird there.” Danu would be there. She would make more sense than these nitwits.
     
    “You were laird more than once?”
     
    “No. I mean, the time period. The year.”
     
    Understanding lit Brochan’s eyes. “Ah, that. And you think we can help you?”
     
    “I think either you can, or you know someone who can.” He hated being forced to even speak of this to these nutcase types. Danu was a queen. God knew what this guy’s function was in the world. But he pressed on. “I know there is a spell that can return me to the past.”
     
    “Because you’ve done it before.”
     
    “Right.”
     
    “And you want us to do the same? Or do you want us to tender your request to Nemed that he oblige you once again? Before you kill him, that is.”
     
    Alex’s eyes narrowed. “How did you know it was Nemed who brought me here? Sent me there, I mean.”
     
    “I did not, until you just told me.” Twittering laughter riffled about the room. Alex realized the entire clan was listening in. His ears warmed.
     
    Again, he pressed the faerie. “Can you send me back? Do you have that ability? Or should I look elsewhere?”
     
    As if Brochan hadn’t heard the question, he rose up from his pillows and shouted out across the room, “Some wine for my friend! In haste, if you please!”
     
    Friend?
     
    Then the faerie lay back once again and addressed Alex. “You’ll pardon my rudeness, Sir Alasdair. We’ll have your wine to you in but a moment.”
     
    Alex didn’t want any wine but was loath to alienate this guy by refusing his hospitality. So he nodded, and leaned an elbow back against a knotted rise in a tree root beside him. The curve of the thing was smooth with the polish of many elbows before his, the top of it a glossy, jet black.
     
    A drinking bowl was brought, what Alex knew to be a cuach , flat and with knobby handles on either side. He’d seen them often while on Barra, back in the far distant past, last year. This one was of gold, the handles wrought with knotted bears and the lip etched in a delicate design. Alex lifted it to his mouth to taste the drink. It turned out to be honey wine. Mead. This stuff was spiced, and quite tasty. Alex remembered he was hungry, and took an injudicious draught. It hit his empty stomach like a small nuke, spreading and roiling heat throughout his body, all the way out to his fingers. The effect was far out of proportion to how smoothly the mead had gone down. He instantly felt better and took another drink before passing the cup to his host. The stuff was good; he had to hand it to these guys for their mead at least.
     
    Brochan took the cup and drank. “So, tell us all the story of how Nemed has crossed you.” He gestured to his kinsmen. “We all love a good story, aye?”
     
    The faeries listening nearby all nodded and murmured their agreement.
     
    Alex shrugged. He didn’t want to blurt all that had gone on between himself and Nemed. But Brochan waved him onward, insisting. Then he thrust the cuach back at him for another drink. Alex took it and emptied the bowl, then cleared his throat. He was stuck. He took a pause while the mead warmed him, and his mood improved. Then he spoke. Carefully, for the drink had also seeped into his head and was making his thoughts dance. “Well, it was a couple of years ago.”
     
    “You said it was centuries past.”
     
    Smartass little prick. “Okay, a couple of years have passed for me since this story began.”
     
    Brochan’s face brightened. “Oh, aye! I’m beginning to see! When ye use terms I can understand, you make it so very plain!”
     
    There was no telling what the guy meant by that. Alex gazed at him for a moment, once more at a loss, but then he went on. “Well. All right