He took in the room as he searched for Dallan. It was a massive round hall, the sort he’d expect of a man of Brian Boru’s position. Layers of beams and rafters held candle-filled chandeliers and overcrowded trestle tables. The entire room smelled of roasted boar, sweat, and smoke. The jaunty music of a skillfully played whistle floated above the murmur of conversation, but Finn couldn’t find the bard playing it. A dancing fire filled a pit in the center of the building. The king and queen sat atop a dais directly opposite the fire from Finn.
And at their feet beneath the dais sat the saddest, most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
Finn’s breath caught as he watched her, unable to tear his gaze away yet knowing he ought to do just that. She was an Ostwoman, wearing a red and blue apron dress with golden brooches. Everything she wore paled in comparison to her, however.
Her long-braided hair couldn’t quite decide its color, shifting from brown to gold in the flickering firelight. Pouty pink lips reminded him of a flower in snow, accentuated by her cream complexion. He couldn’t tell the color of her eyes, but he was shocked by how much he wanted to discover it.
Though he was taken aback by her obvious beauty, what struck Finn most about her was her absent stare, as though she looked at the room before her yet saw none of it. He couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened to leave her so distant from those around her. In his experience, being an Ostman was enough to condemn one to a life as an outsider. Perhaps, like him, she felt such a sting from her heritage.
As he stood staring, contemplating approaching her to learn more, her gaze finally wandered to him. At first, she retained that absent, distant look. Finn smiled at her, hoping he might raise her spirits.
He knew the moment she saw him—reallysawhim. Her eyes filled with a clear warning—a warning to keep away.
They were a deep shade of green.
Normally, her response would only have pushed Finn closer to her out of sheer curiosity. What was going through her mind? But this eve he must instead find Dallan, for he knew his companion needed him. With great reluctance, he tore himself from her fierce challenge, finally spotting Dallan several tables away.
“Is there room for another?” he asked, sliding onto the bench next to Dallan, pretending he didn’t know him at all.
“Aye,” Dallan answered, along with a few of the other men, “have a seat.”
“I’m afraid you’ve missed the feast,” said a man seated opposite him. The fellow had deep golden hair streaked with pale brown, much darker than Finn’s, that reached his shoulders. He was a beast of a man with an air of command about him, the sort Finn would expect to find at the trials for the Fianna. “I’m Illadan,” he offered, extending his hand in greeting.
“Finn.” He took it, trying to place the name. His vast knowledge of the noble families of Mumhain, learned for his poet training, failed him momentarily, though Illadan’s name struck familiar.
Dallan slid him a platter of roasted boar, carrots, and leeks with a few slices of bread, casting him a sideways grin. “I couldn’t quite finish mine. You’re welcome to what’s left.”
Finn might not trust Dallan, but he had never been more grateful for a platter of food. He thanked Dallan and dove straight into his dinner.
“Illadan here is Brian’s nephew,” Dallan explained as Finn ate.
Finn paused, finally remembering where he’d heard Illadan’s name. “You’re Mahon’s son,” he thought aloud. “I’ve sung songs of your victory near Dyflin.”
Illadan smiled wryly, looking at Dallan as he spoke. “I assure you, the songs were more pleasant than the experience.”
“Well fought, either way,” Finn declared, ignoring the odd looks between his two companions. Though he wasn’t well-versed in the politics of nobles, even Finn realized that King Brian had ordered Illadan to sit with Dallan to keep an eye on him. In fact, he’d wager Illadan would be around them quite a lot in the following months.
Illadan nodded at the small lap-sized harp tied to Finn’s pack. “Have you trained with the masters?”
Finn chewed the bite of boar he’d just taken slowly, buying himself a few moments to collect his thoughts. He knew folk would be asking since, according to the legends, poetry and music were among the trials of the Fianna. He just hadn’t decided how to answer yet. His heart still felt raw over the rejection he’d received not a fortnight earlier.
“Not formally.” It was as good as he could do for now.
“Spoken like a man with talent he won’t admit,” Illadan replied with amusement. “I look forward to hearing you play.”
They exchanged similar pleasantries until Finn’s plate lay empty and men started to trickle out of the hall. Illadan had proven a formidable dinner companion, asking interesting questions and giving vague answers of his own. When their table was nearly empty save for Finn, Dallan, and Illadan, the king’s nephew leaned forward. “Are youFin Gall?” he whispered to Finn.
Finn’s pulse quickened, his mouth drying up like a stream during a drought. He was forevermore fighting his heritage. “My father,” he mumbled. He’d hoped it wouldn’t matter again, but clearly he’d been wrong.
Illadan nodded, crossing his arms pensively. “I’d not mention that to Brian,” he replied. “If you prove yourself, he won’t care. But in the meantime, I’d keep that private.”
“And if he observes as keenly as you?” Finn countered. He could hardly hide his resemblance to his father, who looked painfully foreign.
“Lie,” Illadan advised without hesitation. “As a poet, you well know his entire family was killed by the foreigners. I doubt he’ll ever forget it. Now,” he said louder, “if you’ll excuse me, I believe I shall retire for the evening. It’s been a pleasure.”
“That went well, I thought,” Dallan muttered under his breath.
Finn began to voice his agreement when movement near the dais caught his attention. The Ostwoman walked purposefully out a side door, looking stricken as ever. Finn couldn’t name the source of his concern for her, but he felt deeply that she needed help. Beside him, Dallan tensed.
