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Third: He has come to Tara through a black mist.
      The first made no sense; the second he must take care never to do. The third seemed impossible. There were often mists at the High King's royal seat at Tara, but there had never been a black one.
      Conall was a careful fellow. He respected family tradition. Finbarr had never seen him wear anything red. Indeed Conall even avoided touching anything of that colour. "So it seems to me,"
      Finbarr had once told him, "that if you can just stay away from the sea, you'll live forever."
      They had been friends since the day, in childhood, when a hunting party that included young Conall had stopped at Finbarr's family's modest farm to rest. The two boys had met and played, and before long had a wrestling match and then played the game with stick and ball which the islanders call hurling, while the men looked on. A little while later Conall had asked if he might seek out his new acquaintance again; within a month they were fast friends. And when, soon afterwards, Conall had asked if Finbarr might join the royal household and train to become a warrior, this had been granted. Finbarr's family had been overjoyed at such an opportunity for him. The friendship of the two boys had never wavered. If Conall loved Finbarr's good nature and high spirits, Finbarr admired the young aristocrat's quiet, deeper thoughtfulness.
      Not that Conall was always reserved. Though not the brawniest of the young champions, he was probably the finest athlete. He could run like a deer. Only Finbarr could keep up with him when they raced their light, two-wheeled war chariots. When Conall threw a spear, it seemed to fly like a bird, and with deadly accuracy. He could whirl his shield round so fast that you could scarcely see it. And when he struck with his favourite shining sword, it was said that others may give harder blows, but take care-Conall's blade is always swifter. The two boys were also musical. Finbarr liked to sing, Conall to play the harp, which he did well; and as boys they would sometimes entertain the company at the High King's feasts. These were happy times when, good-humouredly, the High King would pay them as though they were hired musicians. The warriors all liked and respected Conall. Those who remembered Morna agreed: the son had the makings of a similar leader.
      And yet-this was the strange thing to Finbarr-it was as if Conall wasn't really interested.
      Conall had been only six the first time he disappeared; and his mother had already been searching all afternoon when, just before sundown, he appeared with an old druid who quietly told her, "The boy's been with me."
      "I found him in the woods," Conall had explained, as if his absence was the most natural thing in the world.
      "What did you do with the druid all day?" his mother asked after the old man had left.
      "Oh, we talked."
      "What about?" his astonished mother asked.
      "Everything," he said happily.
      It had been the same ever since his childhood.
      He would play games with the other boys, but then he'd disappear. Sometimes he'd take Finbarr with him, and they would wander in the woods or along the streams. Finbarr could imitate bird calls.
      Conall liked that. And there was hardly a plant on the island that the young prince couldn't name. But even on these walks sometimes Finbarr would sense that, much as his friend loved him, he wished to be alone; and then he would leave him, and Conall would wander away for half a day.
      He always insisted to Finbarr that he was happy.
      Yet when he was deep in thought, his face would take on a look of melancholy; or sometimes when he was playing the harp, the tune would become strangely sad. "Here comes the man whom sorrow makes his friend," Finbarr would say affectionately when Conall returned from his lonely wanderings; but the young prince would only laugh, or punch him playfully and break into a run.
      It was hardly surprising that by the