Within twenty minutes, Emery stood about half a mile outside the gates of Dun-Dealgen, looking at it from afar, attempting to rationalize going into the hillfort, knowing what she now knew, what Mug Ruith had told her as she stood there staring at him in that circle of flame: There's nothing I can do. You will lose all that is good and pure within; it is a matter of time, not likelihood. What's more, any mortal who knows of your ailment suffers risk of falling prey to it, for the Darkness within you will work to eliminate all who stand to thwart it. Lir had tried to talk to Mug Ruith, to wrestle more from him, to argue that there certainly must be something they could do . . . but the druid had been adamant, and at length, he'd sent the stones spiraling back into the ash, and the flames had parted to release Emery and Lir. The girl had moved through them as if in a trance, stunned by Mug Ruith's words, attempting to process what they meant. No help . . . there was no help for her. She was going to lose herself again just as she'd begun to find herself, and there was nothing she or anyone could do to stop it.

That was why Charlie hadn't been concerned; he'd known that nothing could be done. The process that had begun within her—whatever Bres had done to her— was irreversible. And what was more, she couldn't tell anyone about it! Not Tess, or Cathbad, or . . . or even Cullen. Doing so could endanger them, and the shame she'd feel at telling Cullen that she'd allowed it all to happen to her! It hurt to think about.

This was a death sentence, and one she couldn't even reveal.

The first thing she'd seen after coming out of the inferno was Charlie, waiting patiently for her return. His smug expression, which should have infuriated her, hadn't moved her at all. She and Lir had been subdued. What more could they have said?

Mug Ruith hadn't followed them out, and recognizing it, Lir had turned and gone back after him, stating, "I will find a way. All is not lost."

But the moment he'd gone, Charlie had approached her, taken her hand, and she'd been so shattered that she'd not even noticed. "I'll take you where you want to go," he said. "Just say the word, and we can leave him. He won't be able to find us so easily, anymore; your blood turns even now. He can't help you, Emery."

Knowing he was right, she'd nodded her approval, and now here they were, standing under the very tree Cathbad had taken her to all that time ago, after first warning her about The Dark Man. In the distance, the hillfort's watchtowers blazed with flame, and Emery could barely make out the guards walking the walls. Everything looked so peaceful, and that irked her. But what had she wanted? Chaos? She'd been gone for weeks. They'd probably given up looking for her.

"I can't go in there," she resolved at last, not really meaning to say it out loud.

Charlie leaned against the tree, his eyes emanating a faint white glow. He said nothing.

"I can't put them in danger," Emery went on, feeling an irrational need to explain herself. "They'd want answers, and I can't give them any, or they'll be at risk. And then you'd have to be there, too, and everyone would ask why. They'd probably want to kill you, actually." She expected that would get a reaction out of Charlie, but it didn't. He just stood there, simmering. So she asked him directly: "What's going to happen to me?"

Keeping his gaze on her, Charlie waited to the point of making Emery very uncomfortable before eventually not answering her question. "It won't be so bad, you know. You might actually like it."

"Like what?"

"The freedom. To be truly yourself, to have no concern with the consequences."

"Is that what you feel?"

He shrugged. "I've always been. I wouldn't know anything else."

"You've always been Charlie?"

"I've always been Fear Doirich."

"Well I've been myself for as long as I know, too, so becoming someone else sounds terrifying."

"How much do you really know of yourself, though?" Charlie crossed his arms, and the gleam in his eyes smoldered into nonexistence. "The person you thought you were died the moment you knew she was a lie, and the person whose memories you're reliving died when you forgot her. You can remember her, but you can't be her. So who are you now, then? When we looked in that mirror, when you saw the cunning, the power in your own eyes, in your grin—that was you, even before Bres shared his Darkness. So don't think of this as becoming someone else; think of it as becoming who you are meant to be."

Emery shivered against the cold night. Charlie was wrong. Of course he was lying. Wasn't he supposed to tell her the things they'd want her to hear as she transformed into one of them? Nothing out of Charlie's mouth could be trusted. "You're wrong," she insisted, knowing deep down that in one aspect, he wasn't: she really didn't know who she was.

She'd become untethered the moment she'd realized her life in the otherworld was false. She'd arrived in Dun-Dealgan with no understanding of who she was supposed to be, and while she'd figured out that she loved Cullen—that something deeper than self-knowledge tied her to him—maybe she'd been fooling herself to think she could just fit right into a life as his wife. She'd assumed he'd help her learn the ways of this world, but there was no guarantee she'd like it here, even if he did. Would she always pine for her old life, now that she knew what it was? But the old life had deleted her; she could never return there, and she wouldn't want to, anyway, if Cullen wasn't in it. And Emer—oh, Emer. Emery loved reliving the past with her, but that self was still unfamiliar to her heart, regardless of what she recalled.

Charlie was right, after all. Emery was a hodgepodge of selves, none of them quite the right fit.

"Don't be afraid, Emery," he said, worming into her thoughts. "I'll be here the whole time. I'll help you figure it all out."

"But that's what I'm afraid of."

"Hmm. Well, what's your call? Are we just going to sit here all night?"

Oh, what she wanted most of all was to see Cullen! But she couldn't. "I need to find Deirdre."

Charlie walked over, stood right next to her, shoulder touching hers. She thought about moving away but didn't care enough to do so. "If that's the case, she's not even here. In fact, none of them are."

"What? Then why didn't you say something?"

"You didn't ask. You just wanted to come here."

"Where are they?"

"How should I know?"

"But you know they aren't there—"

"Because we're close. I can sense certain things, when near enough, but I'm not a tracking device." His tone implied irritation, but then he reached out and took hold of her wrist. "Before we do anything, this should probably be looked at, just to make sure it's healing. I should rewrap it."

Emery pulled out of his grasp, pretty sure she knew exactly what he meant. She held her wrist up against her chest, thought for a moment. "Fine. You can see it—" Charlie visibly quivered at her words. "If you help me with Deirdre."

She heard the excitement in his breath. "I will, but that could take a long time. I should look at you, first."

"Nevermind, then. You'll help me with my sister anyway; you have to go where I go."

He faced her, but this time with growing anger. "No, you have to go where I go. I'm not the one who'll start to burn from the inside out if we separate. I'd keep that in mind if I were you."

"And I'm not the one who'll pay an excruciating price if something happens to me!"

She'd grown too bold; they'd been getting along surprisingly well, and she'd forgotten how horrible he was, but he quickly reminded her by shoving her up against the tree so hard her head spun.

"Try talking back without your tongue!" He stuck a hand into her mouth, shoved his way between her teeth, but the second Emery got her bearings, she bit down as hard as she could, sending him into retreat. Charlie didn't scream, though, or even look at his hand; instead, he put his saliva-slippery fingers around her neck and began to squeeze. "I want to hurt you—with every part of me, I want to stare into your eyes while I peel you." He shuddered with his own intensity, and Emery feared for a moment he really was going to choke her. But then his grip loosened somewhat. "Still, I'm sure that's just the shreds of your fading self trying to assert dominance. I'll forgive you, for now." The flare dimmed. Water ran from Emery's eyes and down her cheeks. Charlie leaned forward and lightly kissed her tears. "Don't cry. I'm feeling generous, tonight. I will see your wrist, but I'll give you another memory first, my treat, right now."

A day after Emer had assured Setanta of her love, he asked to meet her father. She was hesitant, knowing Forgall wouldn't be pleased that she'd been secretly meeting someone but hoping he'd be happy with her choice—Setanta seemed a good man, a strong and honorable man. And what could Forgall do to stop her marrying him, anyway? He wasn't her real father.

Nevertheless, she felt nervous as she led Setanta toward Luglochta Loga, each of them on their horses at a walk, still in awe of sharing the same feelings for one another, periodically stealing anxious glances as if afraid of waking from a dream. But when they'd drawn near enough to the tower that it was visible, sticking up off the hill in the distance like a finger pointing irreverently into the gray sky, Setanta stopped the horses. When Emer looked to him, she was alarmed by his serious expression as he stared at her home. "Lady Emer," he said quietly, not taking his eyes from the tower, "who is your father?"

"Forgall Manach," she returned as quietly, suspecting something was wrong. "But he's my foster father. I do not know my real parents."

"Your foster father . . ."

Emer put her hand on his, which he'd placed on the neck of her horse, and that seemed to startle him from his stupor. "Is something amiss? You frighten me."

Setanta looked at her sincerely. "We are not strangers, Forgall and I."

"And . . . is that a misfortune?"

"I know not, but we shall soon find out."

They rode on, picking up their speed, and were let through the walls. Though the few guards scattered around were intensely interested in Emer's companion, none actually spoke to him. There were no welcomes or friendly greetings--they just stared, and there was something unfavorable in their eyes. Emer assumed it was because Setanta was an imposing figure, accoutered with his shield and weapons, as well as the fact that she'd never brought anyone home, let alone a warrior. And yet, she was further discomfited.

Emer had planned on allowing the hostler to take their horses before leading Setanta into the tower and to the hall within, where Forgall met guests, but her father must have heard of their arrival, for he was waiting outside the door and approached them the moment they were near enough. Setanta swung off his horse and then offered to help Emer; she allowed him this time, though she usually did everything herself. She wanted her father to see how attentive to her needs this man was. But Forgall had no concern whatsoever for his ward; he glared in open animosity at Setanta, who did not cower or requite but rather met the look gallantly.

"Forgall."

"Cuchulain," Forgall returned, a knife's edge to the word. "Have you found my daughter wandering and wish to return her? She can be wayward."

Emer caught the name but didn't recognize it. She turned questioningly to Setanta, but he made no alteration in his stance. "I wish to speak with you on a matter of importance."

"So speak, then."

"It would be best to speak alone."

Forgall straightened. His eyes grew wide, and his chin shook. Emer recognized his anger when she saw it--surely the man had anticipated what Setanta wanted from him.

"So it's you, then? Been courting my daughter? You think countryfolk are simple? I knew she was roundabout with someone, but if I'd known it was you--you come here, six winters after you burden me with her, after I've spent a fortune raising her in innocence and virtue, keeping her pure for the rites, and now you come to claim her?"

"Forgall--"

"Oh no! Lord Cuchulain now, is it? You think because you've won more land and riches than even your uncle that you can take whatever you want from the King's subjects!"

"What rites, Forgall?"

"But I'll have you know that she isn't free for the taking! I will never give you my daughter, whatever you try to pay for her. You won't reap the benefits of my labor just as I discovered how to turn a profit on her!"

Setanta's hand went suddenly to his sword, which he pulled out so fast that no one even noticed until he had the tip at Forgall's throat. Several guards made as if to rush forward, but Forgall held out his hands to stop them. "What rites do you speak of?"

His Adam's apple narrowly missing the point of the blade as he gulped, Forgall gritted his teeth and replied, "You know what rites. The rites she failed to fulfill that night. Every druid in the land vies for her, to try to be the one to make the final sacrifice, hoping for any chance of warding off the coming troubles."

Emer watched as spittle trickled out of the sides of his mouth. She'd never seen Forgall so livid nor Setanta anything close to violent and was confused as to what they were arguing about.

A manic gleam entered Forgall's eyes. "You haven't defiled her, have you? I'll get nothing if you have!"

The warrior seemed to inflate at Forgall's comment, and Emer was absolutely certain he'd run her father through with his blade, but miraculously, Setanta restrained himself and pulled back, instead spitting toward Forgall's feet. "If I'd have known you'd treat her like this, I would've taken her myself."

Rubbing his throat, Forgall laughed bitterly. "I'm sure you would have, had you known she'd turn out so handsome." He dabbed at the pearls of blood forming where Setanta's blade had been. "But whatever you do or say, whatever you think of me, you have no claim to her. I am her foster father, and there's nothing you nor your uncle can do about it save kill me first. I know my life is nothing to a man like you, Cuchulain, but I warn you--I've made many a dark acquaintance these past years, and I can torture you with far more than my ghost should you be so bold as to try anything."

Setanta eyed the guards around them, thought, decided. "I hear you, so I will say my goodbyes," he informed Forgall, who squinted at him in suspicion.

Emer's heart beat wildly as he drew her away from prying ears, looked down into her face sorrowfully. How could he say goodbye? Didn't he love her? Before he could speak, fire rose in her. "How dare you leave me! After the words you spoke--you--you never meant--"

"Shh, Lady." Setanta held his fingers to her lips, smiled weakly. "I do not intend to leave you. I needs must consult my druid. If you will have me, I will return for you, tonight, but should you come, you will not see Forgall more."

"That's acceptable," she returned, "as long as I see you forever after."

Setanta desired to kiss her but was wary of watchful eyes. "Wait for me," he whispered. "Tonight." And with a flourish of his cloak, he was off toward the gates.