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Of the people who stood about in the great hall of the palace, examining her drenched figure with curiosity, Fidelma saw no friendly familiar face. There was an air of studied solemnity in the hall. In fact, Fidelma caught a deeper air of melancholy about the place. Even an atmosphere of hostility. A dour-faced religious, with hands clasped as if in ostensive prayer, was standing to one side of the fire.

"God give you a good day, brother," Fidelma greeted him with a smile, attempting to strike up a conversation. "Why are there so many long faces in this place?"

The monk turned and stared hard at her, his face seeming to grow even more lugubrious.

"Surely you do not expect merry-making at such a time as this, sister?" he sniffed reprovingly and turned away before she could demand a further explanation.

Fidelma stood bewildered for a moment before glancing around in an attempt to find a more communicative soul.

She found a thin-faced man staring arrogantly at her. As she raised her eyes to meet his haughty examination, a chord of memory struck. Before she could articulate it, the man had walked across to her.

"So, Fidelma of Kildare," his voice was brittle and without warmth, "your brother, Colgu, has sent for you, has he?"

Fidelma was puzzled by his unfriendly tone but she responded with a smile of greeting as she identified the man.

"I recognize you as Forbassach, Brehon to the king of Laigin. What are you doing so far away from Fearna?"

The man did not return her smile.

"You have a good memory, Sister Fidelma. I have heard of your deeds at the court of Oswy of Northumbria and the service you performed in Rome. However, your talent will avail this kingdom naught. The judgment will not be impeded by your clever reputation."

Fidelma found her smile of greeting frozen for a moment. It was as if she had been addressed in an unfamiliar language and she tried to prevent the look of incomprehension spreading on her features. Brehon Morann of Tara had warned that a good advocate should never let an adversary know what they were thinking and certainly Forbassach was indicating that, somehow, he was her adversary; though in what matter she could not begin to guess.

"I am sure, Forbassach of Fearna, that your statement is profound but I have no understanding of it," she replied slowly, allowing her smile to relax a little.

Forbassach's face reddened.

"Are you being insolent with me, sister? You are Colgu's own sister and yet you pretend…"

"Your pardon, Forbassach."

A quiet, masculine voice interrupted the tones of anger that were building in the voice of the Brehon.

Fidelma glanced up. At her side was a young man, about her own age. He was tall, nearly six feet in height, dressed in the manner of a warrior. He was cleanshaven, with dark, curly hair, and he seemed ruggedly handsome at first glance. His features were agreeable and attractive. She had no time for a more careful appraisal. She noticed that he wore a necklet of twisted gold, worked with ornate embellishments, which showed him to be a member of the Order of the Golden Collar, the elite bodyguards of the kings of Muman. He turned to her with a pleasant smile.

"Your pardon, Sister Fidelma. I am instructed to bid you welcome to Cashel and bring you to your brother at once. If you will be so good as to follow me… ?"

She hesitated but Forbassach had turned away scowling toward a small group who stood muttering and casting glances in her direction. Fidelma was perplexed. But she dismissed the matter and began to follow the young warrior across the paved hall, hurrying slightly to keep up with his leisurely but lengthy pace.

"I do not understand, warrior." She gasped a little in her effort to keep level. "What is Forbassach of Fearna doing here? What makes him so petulant?"

The warrior made a sound suspiciously like a disparaging sniff.

"Forbassach is an envoy from the new king of Laigin, young Fianamail."

"It does not explain his disagreeable greeting nor does it explain why everyone is so mournful. Cashel used to be a palace filled with laughter."

The warrior looked uncomfortable.

"Your brother will explain how matters stand, sister."

He reached a door but before he could raise his hand to knock it was flung open.

"Fidelma!"

A young man came hurrying forward through the doorway. It was obvious to even the most cursory examination that he and Fidelma were related. They shared the same tallness of build, the same red hair and changeable green eyes; the same facial structure and indefinable quality of movement.

Brother and sister embraced with warmth. They broke apart breathlessly and held each other at arm's length, critically examining one another.

"The years have been good to you, Fidelma," observed Colgu with satisfaction.

"And to you, brother. I was anxious when I received your message. It has been many years since I was last in Cashel. I feared some mishap might have befallen you. Yet you look hale and hearty. But those people in the great hall, why are they so grim and melancholy?"

Colgu mac Failbe Fland drew his sister inside the room, turning to the tall warrior: "I will send for you later, Cass," he said, before following Fidelma into the chamber. It was a reception room with a fire smoldering in a corner. A servant came forward bearing a tray on which were two goblets of mulled wine; the heat from them was causing little wisps of steam to rise from the hot liquid. Having placed the tray on a table, the servant unobtrusively withdrew while Colgu motioned Fidelma to a chair in front of the fire.

"Warm yourself after your long journey from Kildare," Colgu instructed, as the thunder still rumbled outside. "The day is still angry with itself," he observed, taking one of the goblets of mulled wine and handing it to his sister.

Fidelma grinned mischievously as she took the goblet and raised it.

"Indeed, it is. But let us drink to better days to come."

"An 'amen' to that, little sister," agreed Colgu.

Fidelma sipped the wine appreciatively.

"There is much to talk of, brother," she said. "Much has happened since we last set eyes on one another. Indeed, I have journeyed to many places: to the island of Colmcille, to the land of the Saxons and even to Rome itself." She paused, as she suddenly noticed that there was some quality of pensiveness and anxiety in his eyes. "But you have yet to answer my question. Why is there this air of melancholy in the palace?"

She saw a frown pass across her brother's brow and paused.

"You always did have acute observation, little sister," he sighed.

"What is it, Colgu?"

Colgu hesitated a moment and then grimaced.

"I am afraid that it was not for a family reunion that you were asked here," he confessed gently.

Fidelma gazed at him, waiting for her brother to elaborate. When he did not, she said quietly: "I had not expected that it was. What is the matter?"

Colgu glanced almost surreptitiously around, as if to make sure that no one was eavesdropping.

"The king…" he began. "King Cathal has succumbed to the Yellow Plague. He is lying in his chamber at death's door. The physicians do not give him long."

Fidelma blinked; yet, deep down, she was not entirely surprised at the news. For two years now the Yellow Plague had spread itself across Europe, devastating the population. Tens of thousands had died from its virulence. It had spared neither lowly peasant, self-satisfied bishop, nor even lofty kings. Only eighteen months ago, when the plague had first arrived in Eireann, the joint High Kings of Ireland, Blathmac and Diarmuid, had both died within days of one another at Tara. A few months ago, Fáelán, the king of Laigin, had died from its ravages. Still the plague raged on unabated. Throughout the land were countless orphaned children, whose mothers and fathers had been carried off by the plague, left helpless and starving. Some members of the Faith, such as the Abbot Ultan of Ardbraccan, had responded by setting up orphanages and fighting the plague, while others, such as Column, the chief professor of the Blessed Finnbarr's college in Cork, had simply taken his fifty pupils and fled to some remote island in an attempt to escape it. Fidelma was well aware of the scourge of the Yellow Plague.