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that the people and the animals remain healthy. I was filled with concern for the land and the tribes, and there was little else I could offer in the way of Druid magic.
    My offerings were paltry, I knew. They were hardly a fair recompense for the labors of the land spirits who grew the crops and fed the kingdom, but there was little more that I could do.
    The folk of the tuaths still appeared at the gate with their carts full of the obligatory butter, milk, cheeses, berries, plums, apples, lambs, smoked hams, venison, and fish. They brought us their nettles and watercresses, cabbages, carrots, and onions, and the storerooms of the dun were filled with spelt, barley, and oats. Somehow there was always ample béoir for the warriors and honey for Íobar’s table, but I knew without being told that the people outside the walls were suffering, even as they brought their best food to the king.
    As the moontides wore on and I had no relations with Deaglán, my status in court diminished until even Íobar no longer asked for me.
    â€œMy lady, I bring news,” Conláed the bard said to me one morning as he ducked through the doorway of my roundhouse clutching his harp. “Deaglán’s concubine is with child. And the tribes have begun raiding on the borders of In Medon once again!”
    I knew that according to the laws, any child born to a concubine had the exact same rights as a child born of a chief wife. Deaglán’s concubine could easily be the mother of the future king. With the peace broken, my only function in the court had been usurped and the reason for my marriage obliterated. Now I understood why I had become invisible. I was no longer of interest to Deaglán, Íobar, or the court.
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6
    I t was an unexpectedly warm morning, and the young priestess took me outside to sit on a little bench on the sunny side of the roundhouse. She tucked thick woolen blankets around my legs and shoulders and began to comb and braid my hair.
    â€œHave I told you about the Beltaine Druid Council in that fateful year?” I asked her.
    â€œNo, my lady,” she replied.
    It felt good to have my hair freshly combed and plaited, and I was grateful that the braids were loose and didn’t pull my scalp.
    â€œWell, then, I had a full account from those who were there. Let me tell you about it…”
    The Druid Council was an event that was rotated yearly from district to district, in a sunwise spiral from kingdom to kingdom. Representatives were sent to the gathering from each province of the island, who would in turn report back to the Druid of their own kingdoms so that every Drui was kept current with the local politics of Ériu.
    The Druid were able to travel across the borders because at that time they were still allowed the privilege of free movement across kingdoms, a remnant of the ancient respect once accorded their ranks. By tradition, the council always took place on the nearest full moon after the Beltaine festival, the time of green shoots, rising sap, and new growth—“The time of optimism and change, when the green sap causes new leaves to unfurl,” as Niamh put it.
    That year it was Niamh and Dálach-gaes’s turn to host the council. Their students helped them prepare for the event by gathering huge piles of firewood from trees outside of the rath and by cutting peat bricks from the nearby bogs, which they stacked neatly within the Druid enclosure, covered with straw and rushes against the rain. They also made soft beds of heather and straw, covered over with furs and woolen blankets borrowed from the stores of Barra Mac Mel, king of In Medon.
    Dálach-gaes, Niamh, and their students and children moved into one house, giving over the children’s house to the expected female guests. The schoolhouse was filled to bursting with extra beds and provisions for the men.
    Ever conscious of the political value of hospitality, Barra Mac Mel was generous