Their ancestors had come from Ulahd into Caledonia, driven by a stronger tribe of the southern Irish. Cormac, born in what was later known as Connacht, was a son of these conquerors, and felt himself not only distinct from these transplanted Gaels, but from their cousins in northern Erin. Still, he had spent enough time among these people to deceive them, he felt.

He strode up to the crude gate and shouted for entrance before he was perceived by the guard, who were prone to be lax in their vigilance in the face of apparent quietude-a universal Celtic trait. A harsh voice ordered him to stand still, while a torch thrust above the gate shone its flickering light full on him. In its illumination Cormac could see, framed above the gate, fierce faces with unkempt beards and cold grey or blue eyes.

"Who are you?" one of the guards demanded.

"Partha Mac Othna, of Ulahd. I have come to take service under your chief, Eochaidh Mac Aible."

"Your garments are dripping wet."

"And they were not it would be a marvel," answered Cormac. "There was a boat load of us set sail from Ulahd this morning. On the way a Saxon sea-rover ran us down and all but I perished in the waves and the arrows the pirates rained upon us. I caught a piece of the broken mast and essayed to float."

"And what of the Saxon?"

"I saw the sails disappear southward. Mayhap they raid the Britons."

"How is it that the guard along the beach did not see you when you finally came ashore?"

"I made shore more than a mile to the south, and glimpsing the lights through the trees, came here. I have been here aforetime and knew it to be Ara, whither I was bound."

"Let him in," growled one of the Dalriadians. "His tale rings true."