The grey stone on the table flashed so brightly Murrough swore it emitted a sound. He sat up from his bed and rubbed his eyes to dull the negative image the light had burned into them. He wrapped the stone in both hands and held it against his chest.

  “Scuirid,” he whispered.

  The grey light leaking between his fingers vanished. The room returned to the gloom one would expect from the small hours of a March night, the early days before the grand stretch of spring. Murrough threw on this week’s leine shirt and his cloak—in reverse order at first—and stumbled out his front door.

  He climbed atop his pewter draught horse, Raetha, and urged her northeast away from his home near Dunfanaghy Bay. He held his breath as he passed the home of his dear friend and neighbor, hoping that Niall MacRannell was fast asleep and not peering out his front window.

  The trail toward Horn Head followed a winding, uneven path around the far side of Croaghnamaddy. The slow pace came with its own benefits. By the time Reatha reached the narrow stretch along the northeast side of the mountain, the eastern sky was awash in enough purple and red to highlight the eastern edge of the trail. More importantly, it lit the two hundred foot drop into Sheephaven Bay.

  Murrough rode along the north ridges for another two miles before reaching a jagged peninsula towering over the ocean. The ground dipped thirty feet south of the farthest tip of Horn Head. Three stones stood within that depression, arranged in a perfect triangle. He stepped into the middle of the formation, spun his hands in a horizontal circle and then backed away until he was several paces outside of the triangle.

  “Oscail tairse? cuci an tala? banrígan,” he said.

  A small sphere appeared in the center of the triangle. Grey light swirled across its surface in random directions. It brightened with each revolution of his arms until he finally flung his hands apart. The sphere expanded to a diameter of six feet and held fast. Light rippled around the edges of the sphere like air above a fire. Murrow pushed his hands toward the sphere. “Daingni?.”

  Yellow light radiated from the stones, drawing runes previously unseen. The sphere grew brighter, more colorful. The colors and shapes solidified into an image. Two stone pedestals no taller than a few inches lay in the foreground. An obelisk sat on one of them, their shapes owing more to time and erosion than tools and intent. It, too, glowed with bright yellow symbols. The surface of the empty pedestal appeared rough if not damaged. Several hawthorn trees crowded together behind the stonework.

  Murrough walked around the outside of the triangle, his eyes locked on the sphere. The image inside rotated based on his position. In one direction yellow hills stretched above the tops of the trees. Another angle showed a wide cliff face looming over the forest. A second obelisk obscured most of the view from the far edge of the depression, but the edge of a modest cottage was visible through the tree trunks. He could see many things through the sphere but not the one thing he climbed Horn Head to see: an old friend.

  Murrough stood for several minutes, and then sat on the edge of the depression for an hour. He cupped both hands and yelled into the sphere. “Are you there? Surely this isn’t a joke?”

  Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

  Nothing.

  His stone seat—and his early rise—beckoned him backwards. What harm is there in lying while I wait, Murrough thought, so long as I don't close my eyes?

  “Murrough?”

  “Murrough?”

  The woman sighed. “I can see you, you gobshite! Wake up!”

  Murrough snorted and jerked his torso upward. “What happened to you?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was delayed. How long did you wait?”

  Murrough held a hand toward the sky. “Well, the sun wasn’t up, I can tell you that. That’s why I made the stone, Caragh. To avoid missed connections.”

  Caragh cinched up the right side of her heart-shaped face and wrinkled the top of her long, proud nose.

  “Calm down,” she said. “You know time works differently here. I can assure you my delay was not a matter of hours.”

  “I’m sure,” Murrough stood and approached the triangle.

  “You look… refreshed,” Caragh said. “Did you lose wrinkles? How are Fintan and Aoife’s boys?”

  “Brilliant,” he said. “To be open with them about our world and the speed at which they’ve adapted to it—it’s heartening.”

  Caragh smiled. “I knew you’d be a wonderful father to them.”

  Murrough shook his head. “None of that, now. There were several times over the last year when I considered myself the opposite.”

  “You all got through it,” she said. “That’s what matters.”

  Murrough narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t summon me here for encouragement.”

  She flattened her mouth. “‘Encouragement’ is far from the word I would use, hai. I have news about the Fomori.”

  “The bridge?”

  “That’s it,” she said. “Work towards a stable portal between Tír na Marbh and Tyrconnell progresses and it’s becoming harder for me to sabotage it. Frankly, I’m surprised they haven’t caught me yet.”

  “How long until it’s completed?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “The mortals can’t send anything into the Otherworld, and the Fomori can’t enter Tyrconnell through it. They are, however, able to communicate as easily as you and I do.”

  “What’s our next move?” Murrough asked.

  “Tell him,” Caragh said.

  “Surely not.”

  “It’s time, Murrough,” she said. “Fomori are already pushing farther into Tyrconnell and the only thing slowing them down is the length of the journey through the plane between the two worlds. If they get a direct doorway between the two locations, everything becomes that much harder.”

  “Caragh—”

  “—You knew that this day would come,” she said.

  Murrough pursed his lips and nodded. “We’ve been meeting like this for so long,” he said. “Niall and I have become the closest of friends. He’s become a second uncle to the boys.”

  Caragh held her tongue for a moment. She bobbed her head as a bead collected under her ocean blue eyes. “I love that for him. And for you and the boys. Nevertheless, it’s time. I can’t stop them without it leading back to a war on my side and those consequences would be even more dire. You need to send a group here to retrieve the Sword and the Spear. Ready yourselves for the fight in the mortal world.”

  “I can’t do that,” he said. “You know they’d be trapped on your side.”

  “I told you I’m working on that,” she said. “I need two things for that. You all must find our home in Tír na mBeo.”

  Murrough craned his neck right and left. “Odd. That doesn’t look like Tír na mBeo behind you. Or Tír Tairnigire.”

  “Don’t—”

  “—Caragh, why are you wrapped in a blanket? It doesn’t look that cold around you.”

  “Wind your neck in, MacMenamin. You worry about getting them to me.” She dipped her chin and raised her eyebrows. “After you tell Niall, of course.”

  “Telling him does no good if he never speaks to me again,” Murrough said. “That man can hold a grudge better than anyone I know.”

  Caragh shifted her weight and sharpened her tone. “You don’t have to tell me that, sir. I was married to him.”