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attention was drawn to the far end of the building, where the king and a group of his warriors and druids stood waiting. Brendan walked toward them as casually as though he were out for a stroll along the beach.  
    She found herself staring at his tall form as he strode across the rushes. His plain gray cloak billowed out from his broad shoulders, ending midway down his long legs and appearing a dashing contrast against the sleek, black leather of his new pants and boots.  
    Even in his plain, borrowed clothes he stood tall before King Murrough. He seemed to think he was just as regal and noble as the king, who wore brightly dyed blue and red and purple wools and who fairly glittered with heavy gold.  
    “Good morning to you, King Murrough,” said Brendan in his clear and pleasant voice. Muriel moved to stand a little distance away. She was careful to look only at the king, not at the tall, gray-clad figure beside her.  
    “Brendan,” said the king. “You are welcome here at Dun Farraige. I hope that the hospitality you have received has been satisfactory.”  
    “It has been more than I could ask for, and more than I deserve. I am grateful to you, and to your people, and especially to this lady who stands near me now—this Lady Muriel.”  
    He turned to her and smiled, and in that moment she saw only his blue and brown eyes and the smooth, fair skin of his face. She made herself look away and did not answer; instead, she simply inclined her head in recognition. She feared that her voice might quaver if she spoke…if those shining eyes gazed at her again…if that dazzling smile was fixed on her one more time.  
    Brendan turned back to the king. Muriel drew a deep breath and willed herself to remain calm and unruffled. He was just a man like any other. It was simply his eyes that were different. That was all.  
    “You are welcome to what we have,” the king said. “If you are now comfortable, we invite you to tell us your story.” He sat down on a bench, and the nine warriors and five druids around him shifted as they looked expectantly at their guest.  
    “I will be happy to do so.” Brendan’s smile included everyone in the room. “My name is Brendan. I am from Dun Bochna, the home of King Galvin, my father. It is a long way from here, far across the bay.”  
    “It is,” agreed the king. “It is five days’ ride from here—if one has five good days. I have been there twice. And on neither of those visits do I recall seeing you.”  
    Brendan regarded him. “No doubt I was out riding with the other men patrolling our borders, or checking on the herd boys out with the cattle in the hills, or simply hunting deer or boar. When the summer comes, I am not often to be found within the walls of the dun.”  
    “That is possible,” conceded the king. “But do you also set out alone in a little curragh when the summer comes?”  
    Brendan almost laughed. “I do not. That is another story.”  
    “So it is.” Murrough’s eyes narrowed. “You were found alone in just such a craft without weapon, sail, or oar. You were dressed in rags, your hair cut short in the manner of a slave.”  
    “Criminals are cast out on the sea just as you describe,” accused the druid nearest the king in a murmur.  
    Brendan drew himself up even taller. “I am no criminal.”  
    “You had neither food nor water, as the law requires,” the druid added. “Were your supplies lost during the storm? Or do you mean to tell us that someone deliberately set you adrift in this way?”  
    “Someone did exactly that. It was King Odhran.”  
    There was a murmuring among the druids and the warriors. King Murrough glanced up at them, causing their silence, and then turned back to Brendan. “I was told that you had spoken of Odhran,” he said. “We know him far too well. He has tried to establish a hold on the rugged lands at the eastern end of the bay.”  
    “He has done more than try,” Brendan proclaimed.