Emery couldn't help but feel something like excitement when they reached Emain Macha, in spite of what she'd been through the last few days with Charlie. It'd been his suggestion--going to Conchobar. His reasoning had been that if Deirdre had indeed done what Emery had thought she'd done, Conchobar could call home his Red Branch Knights, who under fealty to him, would be obligated to come, and they'd bring Deirdre with them..

Though Emery wasn't particularly keen to see the King himself, she was interested to know what Emain Macha was like. It was the homestead of the King of Ulster, where his chieftains and warriors gathered, and where Cullen had been raised by Conchobar, who was his uncle. Cú Roí's--the King of Munster's--fort hadn't been entirely impressive except that she'd heard it picked itself up and rotated each night to keep its gate hidden, but she hadn't heard anything like that about Emain Macha.

It was a clear, sunlit day when they arrived. For his own esoteric reasons, Charlie had insisted they ride from Dun-Dealgan to Emain Macha. He'd stolen a horse from a farmstead and made Emery ride with him. She'd have much rather had her own horse; in fact, she'd have rather walked to Emain Macha than sit that close to Charlie for any extended length of time, but he had impressed upon her that they had to move if she wanted to get her sister back before anything irreversible happened. When Emery had asked why they couldn't travel in his usual manner--just moving them from place to place--he'd said he didn't feel like it, which had infuriated her. But she'd been unable to change his mind. So they'd spent about four days traveling, stopping whenever Charlie wanted, eating whatever he provided. Once or twice, she'd attempted to sneak away from him, but she'd quickly found that at a distance of about thirty feet, her limbs began to tingle, to heat, and the discomfort turned to pain as the distance widened. It was true--the poison in her desired to be near its kind.

She'd had to return to Charlie, who'd felt no concern whatsoever to see her attempt to leave him. He'd known she couldn't go anywhere.

At least, though, he'd not been too creepy toward her on their journey. After she'd woken from her last memory, the one in which Cullen had met Forgall, she'd seen that her wrist had been rewrapped. It was a little sore, but she hadn't asked any questions about what he'd done to it; she'd been afraid she wouldn't like the answer. And she'd recalled his reaction to her reference to his potential punishment and hadn't wanted to evoke another of his fits. So she'd gone along with the horse riding, keeping in mind that the main thing was getting her sister, regardless of her own discomfort or frustration.

Being on a horse again--even a farm horse--had been pleasant; Emery missed Liath Macha, Cullen's beautiful gray stallion, and she missed being able to ride properly, on her own. She missed her spear, Lugh's Spear. It was good to have the dagger, but that couldn't hurt Charlie; Emery bet the spear could. She bet Gáe Bulg, Cullen's spear--or Claíomh Solais, his Sword of Light--could hurt Charlie as well. A supernatural weapon was needed for a supernatural being, surely.

These were her thoughts--ways Charlie might be hurt--as they reached Emain Macha on that sunlit day.

The land was relatively flat, low-lying green and brown hills rising from fringes of forest and narrow treelines, but in the distance was a low mound with a massive circumference--it must've been three times the size of the hill on which Dun-Dealgan was situated, and it was surrounded with a wall so high that it cast a long shadow on the land below.

Charlie stopped the horse. "We can't go in like this," he noted. "Get down, would you?"

Emery gladly slipped off the back of the animal, and Charlie did the same. Then he slapped the animal's rear and sent it off in the direction from which they've come.

"I've met Conchobar. He'll remember me," Emery said, recalling with disgust what he'd wanted of her. "But he'll probably wonder why I'm alone."

"You won't be."

"I mean why I'm without Cullen."

"I'm sure you'll think of something to tell him."

Emery didn't say what she was really wondering--whether Cullen would actually be at Emain Macha. And if he wasn't, whether he'd come when Conchobar called home his Knights. The thought of seeing him pained her, but their reunion was inevitable. Emery would surely see him again . . . what she'd have to tell him when she did was something she didn't want to think about. Not until she absolutely had to.

"You need to wear something else," Charlie added. "Try it."

Emery lowered her brow, waited for further explanation, but got nothing. "Try what?"

"Darkness is power, Em. Tell it you need something; see if it complies."

"Are you . . . what?"

"Just do it."

"But I don't understand. How?"

Charlie sighed as if he were dealing with a child. "Just think it; speak to the Darkness. Tell it what you want."

Speak to the Darkness? That was . . . possible? It sounded ridiculous. And to think that she had any sort of power was ridiculous, as well . . . wasn't it? Nevertheless, she closed her eyes and thought, I'd like some new clothes. And when she opened her eyes--nothing had changed.

Charlie raised an eyebrow. "You were too polite, I'm sure. Try again. Tell it what to do; don't ask it."

Please give me some new clothes, she thought, but again there was no change.

Chewing his lip, Charlie said, "You should be able to do these things, by now. You're doing it wrong, I'm sure. Say it aloud, so I can hear."

Emery shook her head. This was stupid. "Fine." She closed her eyes once more. "I want some clothes."

"Again, meaner."

"Give me some clothes!" she cried.

"Angrier."

She tried three or four more variations of the same command to no avail and was beginning to grow entirely frustrated with the whole farce, especially as Charlie got more up in her face, shouted at her, with each iteration.

"You're weak," he scolded her at last. "You've always been weak. You'll never be anything but pathetic."

Emery was so riled up from his yelling and her yelling that she grew reckless again and actually grabbed hold of Charlie's shirt, pulled him up to her. "I will get some clothes, you nauseating piece of filth!" she hissed. "You'll see."

Just as she realized she'd gone too far--that he'd surely hurt her again--Charlie grinned. "I do see," he said, and Emery, letting go of him, looked down at herself in absolute shock to see that she was, indeed, wearing an entirely different outfit. She was in breeches--dark leather breeches, like those she'd seen the warrior women of Dun-Dealgan wearing. There were boots, wound up her calves, and a short tunic of deep gray, criss-crossed with leather straps, one of which held her sheathed dagger, whose pommel was visible, its red gemstone glittering brilliantly in the cold sunlight. She wore no shawl or wrap but just a cloak of mixed gray and black furs; it was tied at her neck with a cord. Even her hair was different, she noticed when she raised a hand to her head. It'd been parted and braided along the sides, though the top was left loose, and it seemed to be collected into a knot at the back.

"What about some weapons?"

Charlie stared at her, perplexed. "What?"

"Shouldn't I have a sword or a spear or something?"

"That's the first thing you say?"

"Well, the dagger--"

"Is enough for now," he finished for her. "Gods, Emery. Be patient." But he hadn't lost his devilish grin.

He decided to turn into an old woman, hunched and wrinkled. "I'll be your old serving woman," he croaked in his new voice. "None will recognize me; they'll all be looking to you."

That gave Emery some cause for concern. She'd hardly understood how to fit into this world with friends at her side; how would she figure it out surrounded by strangers? And yet, as they finished their journey on foot, she buzzed with energy. Nobody had told her that this Darkness business would bring her magical powers. She knew, of course, that the trade was still to her detriment; losing herself and ultimately probably being killed by some monsters was in no way equal to gaining some fun powers in the interim. However, she'd not known there was any upside at all to this thing they'd done to her, and the discovery was electrifying. Charlie--he hadn't had to tell her. Why'd he done so? Surely, he could've let her go the whole time without telling her about it. She looked at the old woman at her side, wondering. And then she pulled her cloak around her tighter, loving its warmth. This outfit--why had she picked this, of all things? Well, pants were certainly more useful for horseback riding and general mobility, and perhaps her inner self had known she'd need a more assertive affect to impress upon the King. Emery had always admired the female warriors in Dun-Dealgan.

Was this that true self Charlie had mentioned? Was this what she wanted to be?

Thinking about it was a waste of time. She liked these clothes, and she liked having a little power. Maybe more would come. In any case, she'd try to enjoy it rather than dwell on what Mug Ruith was certain couldn't be changed.

As they approached the gates, the walls of the hillfort towering above them, Emery's nerves heightened. Certainly she should be on a horse. How foolish it looked to approach this place on foot with an old woman at her side? No one would believe they could've traveled in such a manner. But she was relieved to see a stream of carts and horses and men and women along the path. Emain Macha was a bustling place, with traders and visitors and soldiers and families and merchants moving in and out at a constant pace. Dun-Dealgan was a village; Emain Macha was a city. She and Charlie mingled with the others moving toward the walls, and nobody cared that they hadn't any horses. When they reached the gates, they were questioned as to name and purpose, and Emery thought quickly enough to respond, "Lady Emer of Dun-Dealgan, wife of Lord Cuchulain, traveling with my serving woman for an audience with the King," and while that announcement earned her some curious looks, the guards allowed them entry.

Once inside, the sheer size of the place overwhelmed Emery. So much was going on within the gates, and she hadn't a clue where to go. There seemed to be one main pathway heading right into the middle of the fort, so she just headed down it following the vast majority of people. Numerous side paths veered off at every step, winding through stalls and thatched buildings big and small, stables and animal pens, and there were carts and horses and buyers and sellers and so, so many people. Charlie in his old woman form was no help to her, as he was too bent over to easily talk to, and he made no move to indicate he had something to say. So she just kept on, and she was glad to realize she fit in as well as anyone else there. While most women wore long dresses, there were a fair amount of women in warrior garb, so she didn't stand out as much as she'd feared she would. By the time they reached what was likely the center of the fort, Emery's confidence was renewed.

The path eventually led them to an absolutely enormous roundhouse, its thatched pinnacle pointing upward into the blue. To the left and right of it though a little behind were two more roundhouses, smaller yet also far larger than anything she'd seen in Dun-Dealgan. Each was guarded by several men, but the heaviest guard was outside the center building, so Emery figured that was the likeliest place for King Conchobar's residence. She was about to march right on up to the entrance when suddenly, she heard her name from behind.

"Lady Emer?" the armed man repeated when she turned. "The King has heard of your arrival and asks that I bring you to him."

"Oh." That was convenient. "Of course. Thank you. Take me to him."

"This way, Lady," the man replied, indicating that she follow him to the roundhouse at left, so she did, making sure Charlie was still hobbling along behind her.

The door was guarded, but Emery's escort exchanged a word, and they were allowed to pass. Through the curtain was a vast space; in fact, the roundhouse didn't seem to have any separate rooms or partitions but instead was entirely open. As in all such buildings, a firepit cracked in the center, its firedogs molded into huge boars' heads, visible even within the flames. Otherwise, this building was structured like most other roundhouses, though other than some seating around the firepit, it held no signs that it was a dwelling place. Instead, it harbored a rather unique and all at once terrifying decoration: heads. Everywhere, heads. Nailed to the walls, dangling from the rafters, in barrels across the floor. Many were old and decayed, skin like leather clinging to the skull, sunken eyeholes and protruding teeth, hair mere wisps of wire; some were relatively fresh, though, with visible eyeballs, red lips, and noses beginning to rot at the tips. All the others were in middling states of decomposition, but there must have been hundreds, at least. There were other odds and ends present, including horns and hides of animals as well as torques and jewels piled in chests, but the heads were predominant.

"Lady Emer!" boomed a voice, and Emery caught sight of King Conchobar standing near the firepit. She'd been so taken aback by the heads that she'd not noticed him. "Your visit is a surprise, though it is not unwelcome. What do you think of the Craobh Dearg? My house of blood trophies? All won in battle by myself and my Knights."

Though truly horrified, Emery didn't want him to know it. She shook herself imperceptibly and replied, "It's fascinating. But I've come here to ask for your help."

The long-haired, black-bearded man stood there in his kingly attire, scrutinizing her. "You are different than I remember you, Lady Emer. Where is your husband?"

"I don't know," she replied honestly, "but I am not here to talk about him. I need your help to find my sister."

Conchobar took a few steps toward her, eyed the old woman at her side, and then looked back up to Emery. "Your sister, you say? And what is it I can do to help?"

"She's been kidnapped by one of your men."

"One of the Red Branch? Which one?"

Emery took a deep breath. Once the name was out, she couldn't take it back. "Naoise," she said.

The King's eyes narrowed at the name, looked hard at Emery. "And what does Lord Cuchulain say of this?"

"I don't know. I . . . I haven't seen him in several weeks."

"That's right," Conchobar nodded, wagging a finger at her. "I'd heard tell he lost his woman again. Yet, here you are, Lady, come to me."

"For your help with my sister," Emery stressed.

Though he certainly looked like he had more to say, the King rolled his comments over in his mouth before eventually replying, "What's she like, this sister?"

"Young," was the first word out of Emery's mouth.

"Beautiful," croaked Charlie at her side.

Emery was going to tell him to shut up, but Conchobar interjected. "I will call home my Knights, Lady. We shall help this . . . sister."

But the way he said it, and the look in his eye, made Emery none too sure she'd made the right decision, after all.