In the centre of the imposing eminence of the Hill of Tara stood the remnants of Ráth na Rí, the Stronghold of Sovereignty.  Once the fortress of the great High Kings of Eirlandia, all that remained of that storied time was the great circular ditch and the Pillar Stone known as the Lia Fáil where gatherings and kingmakings took place long ago.  There was also a massive stone barrow tomb of age beyond reckoning, erected by a race long ago lost to memory and reputed to be the burial place of King Nuada, first king of the Dé Dananns, or perhaps the father of the race, Donn himself, whose footprints were said to be embedded in the Rígad Stone.  On that sacred stone, each of Eirlandia's high kings had been sworn and enthroned - back in the days when a supreme king ruled the island.  Over time, other structures had been added, as need and custom dictated: a large circle of wooden posts topped with a roof of reed - the original purpose of which had been forgotten, but now functioned as a meeting place when the weather was foul; a great fire ring for the ceremonial fires the druids venerated; three houses to store the food and drink for the official gatherings, and several small grave mounds of unknown nobles - one of which was reputed to be that of King Samildanach, the Many Favoured.

Assembled within the encircling ditch, a triple rank of perhaps fifty warriors and no fewer than eight lords crowded the perimeter of a wooden platform.  Though it had been four, or maybe five years since Conor had attended one of these gatherings, he recognised most of the early arrivals.  Of those he knew on sight, there was Rochad of the Gangani, a dour, mirthless fellow ruling a dour and mirthless tribe, always dressed in drab, colourless garb as if in perpetual mourning for his lost kingdom.  Next to him stood Lord Alamaich of the Luceni with a few of his advisors; they, at least, displayed the general penchant for bright colours and expensive cloth favoured by the other chieftains: siarcs of bright saffron yellow and short summer cloaks of soft sea green, close-cut breecs the colour of copper, ochre, and sorrel.  Surrounded by his warriors nearby, arms over his paunch, dressed all in red, stood hook-nosed Credne, Lord of the Cauci, a stiff-necked, garrulous old moaner, no mistake, but a lord who knew how to look after his diminished clan.

To a man, they all wore the emblem of kingship: the torc.  Whether crafted in twisted strands, bands, or rolled into fat hollow tubes of silver or gold, the neck ornament gleamed at every lordly throat.  Nor was that all - there were bracelets and armbands and chains and brooches of every size and description a smith could devise, and each and every ornament polished until it gleamed.

Outshining them all, up on his raised platform so he could look down upon all other lesser lords, stood Lord Brecan, King of the Brigantes.  Legs spread and arms crossed over his chest, and a thick golden torc around his throat, he stood and surveyed the crowd arrayed before him.  Brecan carried no weapons, but had a ceremonial obsidian knife stuck in his wide leather belt from which hung a richly tooled sparan.  His dark hair, streaked with grey, was plaited in an elaborate double braid at the side of his square head, giving him a look at once august and slightly vain, and the trailing ends of his long moustache were braided, too.  He wore a flame-coloured siarc with blue embroidered knotwork, heather-coloured breecs, and soft leather brocs; a green-checked cloak, fixed with a handsome gold cassán, lay in neat folds on his shoulder and hung down over his chest to partially hide his substantial belly.

His aged druid, the wizened and crusty Mog Ruith, stood beside him, a stern and disapproving presence, dressed in a faded red cloak over a much-worn green tunic of rough woven cloth.

The outer ring of onlookers parted to admit Ardan and his attendants to the conclave.  King Brecan, assuming the part of the gracious host, welcomed the newcomers warmly.  He stepped to the edge of the platform, reached down and gripped Ardan by the forearms in the warrior's embrace, and said, 'Hail and welcome, Lord Ardan, may you and your people prosper with all the good fortune you deserve.  Please, take your place among us that we may all benefit from your astute counsel.'