Rain fell for the next week. There was little to do in all that time. There was no riding horses, no traveling out of the walls into soggy pastures, no going to the stream for water. No feasts were held, either. In fact, the mood in the girls' roundhouse was absolutely sullen, and it hadn't helped that the day after they'd returned from Cathair Chon-Raoí, Tess woke ill, and Cathbad had taken her to his hut in the forest to recuperate. He assured Emery that Tess was most likely in a state of shock and would soon be well, but he believed she needed his consistent care. Emery couldn't disagree with him; she was genuinely worried about Tess, and she herself had no medicines or skill when it came to illness, especially the kind of PTSD Tess was probably going through. So, Tess had gone, and though Oonagh was always cheerful, she was often helping her family, especially as her father's illness had turned into something that was probably pneumonia, and her mother needed her more and more. Emery had offered to help as well, but Oonagh was too afraid Emery would grow ill, as well, moving back and forth in the rain, and as she said, "Mine'll be the next head over that gate if I allow the Lord's Lady to die of illness!"

So that meant Emery was largely alone during the day, and only in the evenings, when Oonagh returned with food and watery beer was there any sort of joy in the roundhouse. Emery hated being helpless, being unable to get her own food and drink. She at least knew how to get her own well water for the bath, and she didn't mind trudging out into the rain and mist and mud for it. In fact, going to the well was perhaps the most interesting part of her days. Other than that, to keep her mind off of Charlie and The Dark Man and everything else that confused her, she practiced throwing her dagger indoors (the wall above her bed was beginning to sustain some damage), attempting to refine what few weaving skills she had, and cautiously touching Lugh's Spear.

She'd been afraid to do more than press a finger to it, but the longer Oonagh stayed away, the longer she was alone, the bolder Emery began to grow. After about four days of mind-numbing boredom during which even a math textbook might've caught her interest, Emery was able to hold the spear and raise it above her head, even spin it slightly and try to ready herself for throwing it. She wouldn't throw it, of course--not indoors anyway. Or even out of doors. Whatever the spearhead touched caught fire (or so she'd been told), and the last thing she needed was to be blamed for burning Dun-Dealgan to the ground. Still, the shaft began to feel comfortable in her hand, as if it enjoyed being held, as if it had waited for her to find her courage and was rewarding her now.

But even the spear couldn't occupy her for so long. One morning, before she and Oonagh had finished their porridge, Emery said, "I think my birthday passed."

"Your birthday?"

Emery looked up at Oonagh, marveled for the millionth time at how many freckles were on her face, and said, "Where I'm from, we celebrate the day we were born. I don't really know what the date is, but if Samhain was sort of like Halloween, we've got to be well into November, now, and my birthday is November nineteenth. I think I'm eighteen, now."

Oonagh sparkled, her grin large enough to chase away the shadows and rain. "Yes! We, too, celebrate, though with the seasons. Oh, Emery! We must do something fun!"

Rolling her eyes, Emery shrugged. "Don't worry about it. I don't know what there would even be to do, here. This weather is killing me."

Frowning, growling in annoyance, Oonagh replied, "Oh, bother! If I'd known, I would've asked mother--"

"No, it's all right! Just go to help your family. They need you more than I do. I'll just . . . try to embroider something. I don't know. Don't worry about me. I don't even know if it is my birthday. It was probably several days ago."

"All right, all right . . ." Oonagh began to look around. She stood and bustled about her bed, muttering to herself about putting things in their proper places. After digging in a trunk, though, she gave a cry of success and stood, holding a large bottle in her hands. Turning to Emery, she cried, "This I was saving for a special moment! It's supposed to be one of the finest meads! With honey and flowers--you should drink it, or at least, some of it. Maybe save a glass for me. I'll return tonight for dinner, and . . . and I'll have a surprise for you! But I mean what I say, Emery--you drink this. I'll be very cross if I come back and you've not had any."

Emery took Oonagh at her word. By the late afternoon, she was as bored as anything, and though honey and flowers didn't sound particularly appetizing in a drink, she was ready to try anything different just to occupy herself. The rain had intensified, and at the same time, the clouds had thickened. It was so overcast that the interior of the roundhouse was as dark as if it were night. Emery managed to remove the top of the bottle and pour some of the liquid into a drinking cup. It smelled rich, just as Oonagh had said, and though she was at first hesitant to try it, Emery found the drink was delicious. It wasn't like anything she'd ever tasted, none of the wine they'd had at their feasts, and certainly nothing like that watery beer they drank at meals. This was something altogether different, and before Emery knew it, she'd had half the bottle. Growing warm, the girl removed her outer layers so she wore only her long tunic. She tied up her hair terribly (half of it falling out) and lifted the bottle for another pour. But then she stopped.

I have to save some for Oonagh! she caught herself, setting the mead aside a little too late for her own tolerance. The roundhouse seemed to be turning around her, though she was sure she sat still, and Lugh's Spear caught her eye. Blinking several times, Emery decided that it was high time she practice for real, so she haphazardly slipped on her Converse shoes, pulled the spear off the firedog far too casually, and headed out of the roundhouse into the pouring rain.

To her delight, the spear's flame wasn't dampened or dimmed in the least; the rain did nothing to it except cause her hands to slip a bit on the shaft. There was a bit of space between her roundhouse and the walkway that led up to Cullen's; it was where she'd been practicing with her dagger several nights ago, before the rain had begun. It was a wide enough gap that she had plenty of room to lift Lugh's Spear high, to spin it, to pull her arm back as if to throw it, to prop it up under one arm in order to move with it . . . and the flame! The rain absolutely soaked her, ran in rivulets down her neck and back, but she didn't care. That dazzling blue flame against the night, highlighting the rain and mist around it like a Fourth of July sparkler--it was mesmerizing, and nothing else mattered. This was a real treasure. Her treasure.

Someone or something suddenly came up at her from behind, catching her off-guard so that she momentarily thought she'd run up against a wall, but then she knew there was no wall behind her. As she was trying to figure it out, Lugh's Spear was pulled out of her grasp, and Emery was left staring at her empty hand. Spinning, she saw a dark figure marching up the walkway toward Cullen's doorway, and anger flared.

"Hey!" she called out. "You can't take my spear! Give it back!" Emery began to run, the mud squelching around her shoes, and she followed the figure up the walk and reached him just as he arrived at his door and turned to face her.

"You cannot treat Lugh's Spear with such carelessness!" Cullen scolded her. But then a strange look crossed his face, as if he was startled to see her.

"It's mine! I can do what I want with it."

His eyes lingered on her face for a moment. "Not if you risk burning down the walls!" Then he pushed through the curtain at his doorway and entered his roundhouse.

Emery stood in the rain, quite at a loss. She wanted her spear back, but she wasn't sure she wanted to go into Cullen's dwelling. But the mead gave her courage, so she kicked off her muddy shoes and swept aside the hanging.

Though she'd seen the interior of Cullen's roundhouse once before, she was still taken aback at the sight of it. For such a difficult man, he kept a comfortable living space. The fire flickered happily in its pit, the torches seemed to answer it with their own yellow glow, and the woven rugs and animal furs and thick, hanging fabric kept in the heat. Emery wondered briefly whether the Stone of Destiny was still behind his bed curtain, but then she saw what he was doing and gasped in shock. A large purplish cauldron, embossed with the open-mouthed face of a God or man, sat near the wall, against one of the windows, and Cullen had flipped Lugh's Spear and placed it head-down into the interior of the cauldron, where its blue flame flickered around the belly and was extinguished.

"What did you do?" the girl cried. "You've--you've ruined it!"

Cullen propped the shaft of the spear against the wall and said without turning, "No. This is the Dagda's Cauldron. It is the only safe place to store Lugh's Spear. It will ignite again once removed."

"But--but you can't just take it from me! It's mine!"

Rather than respond to her petulance, he stayed where he was, wouldn't turn to her, and while Emery tried to figure out what was wrong with him, she suddenly realized he was nervous. It was in the way he stood, as if he didn't know what to do with himself. He wore only a tunic and breeches; a leather belt brought the tunic in at his waist, and Emery saw how the rain had soaked the fabric, just in the moment he'd been outside. How it clung to him--

She understood.

The mead had made her foolish. She crimsoned, looked about, but before she ran out the door, Cullen composed himself and went to a chest which he opened in order to retrieve a thick blue tartan. Then he crossed the room to Emery, keeping his eyes on hers, and handed it to her.

"Thank you," she mumbled, and he looked away while she wrapped the fabric around herself. The moment of shame had tempered her ire. "I--I thought you'd gotten the cauldron, but I wasn't sure."

Assured that Emery was decent, Cullen faced her once again. His hair was dripping wet, as Emery's surely was, but as his auburn waves were braided back, he still managed to look put together. Emery couldn't help glancing at his arms, so strong--how could one man have such strong arms? And what did they feel like? She found she wanted to touch him, but she shook her head sharply.

"Allow me to keep Lugh's Spear in the Dagda's Cauldron, Emery; I would rest easier being certain of your safety."

"You mean you think I'll be careless with it?"

"You were being careless with it."

She bit her lip, tried not to say something sarcastic, pulled the tartan tighter around her shoulders. "What have you been doing all this time? Why didn't you come tell me about the cauldron?"

Cullen's brow lowered, his features shifted slightly. He became more stern, if that were possible. "I . . . sensed you did not wish to see me."

The girl trembled beneath the tartan, whether from the damp or something else was uncertain. "You--you . . ." Her voice caught. "What you did to him--to the king! It was--" she closed her eyes at the memory, "horrible." Her eyes opened again. "Brutal. To do that to a person . . ."

"Emery," Cullen shook his head softly, "it is the way of things."

She sniffed, wiped rainwater off her cheeks with the corner of the tartan. His non-answer was exactly what she'd assumed he'd say about his violent actions. Cathbad had told her the same--it was how things were. But she still couldn't reconcile her image of Cullen's brutality with the other sides of him she'd begun to see.

"And that girl!" she pressed. "She died because of you and him."

"I regret that it ended so."

Emery's selfishness crept in. "I'm sure you do! I saw how you looked at her! She wanted you, and you probably wanted her, too. You were probably planning--"

Cullen stepped closer, alarming her. Emery turned away from him, but he drew right up behind her; she could sense his presence, just barely feel his body against hers.

"I did not want that child," his deep voice averred, and it was so close above her and so velvety smooth. "I pitied her."

Emery was dizzy from his nearness and his words; her heart quickened. The fire's heat and the warmth of the tartan and the press of his chest against her back--oh, what was he doing? He shouldn't--

"I have only ever wanted one woman," he added, wrapping an arm slowly around her upper body, lifting his hand and, with his fingers, playing at the edge of the fabric against her neck. Emery was lost in the sensation of his touch, the disparate delicate sweep of his warrior's hand against her skin. His breath intensified--or maybe it was hers?--and as she allowed him to slide his other arm around her waist, the images the stone had given her flashed through her mind. Was this happening? Truly?

His lips were unexpectedly at her nape, and she tipped her head forward to receive his kiss. But suddenly, with his hand at her throat and his mouth beginning to make its way slowly down her spine, the remembrance of Cullen's sword shoving through Cú Roí startled her to reality. This--this couldn't happen--!

"No!" Emery insisted weakly, twisting forcefully out of his arms.

Cullen released her, his hands suspended as if wanting to take her back, but Emery was entirely bewildered and couldn't handle the sight of his dismayed eyes aglow with their copper veins. She had to get away.

"I can't--" was all she could offer in way of an explanation, and then she spun and hurried toward the door and out into the rain, dropping the tartan from her shoulders as she went.

Practically sliding down the walkway, Emery managed to reach the ground and get back into her own roundhouse, where she practically screamed in frustration and confusion. Wasn't it everything she'd wanted? Wasn't he everything she wanted? Even in his infuriating aloofness and stoicism, his unrelatable savagery, his frightening intensity--she had been dreaming of him since before she could remember, in all his perfection and flaws, and for some godforsaken reason, he seemed to want her, too!

But no, he'd only ever wanted one woman, he said, and it wasn't her; it was Emer, who felt as foreign to her now as she had since first being told of the woman--of her beauty and grace, her daring and her skill. Emery couldn't be Emer, and when Cullen found out--which he would soon enough if he hadn't already--well, Emery couldn't bear thinking of what he'd do, what he'd say. She couldn't allow him to find out, and the closer they became, the more certain she was that she could never be the woman he'd married, the woman he wanted to be with.

"Emery!"

Oonagh's voice caused her to give a little shriek. Her friend had entered the roundhouse and was dripping all over the floor.

"I hope you've saved some of that mead for--my friend! What--what ails you? Have you been weeping?"

Emery tried to hide her state as Oonagh rushed to her, but it was impossible. She was a wreck.

"Well, whatever's happened," Oonagh soothed, brushing Emery's wet hair off her forehead, "I've kept my promise. I've the best surprise for you! You must dress yourself warmly, and I will as well. Emery--I'm taking you where you want to go . . . I'm taking you to Luglochta Loga!"