“Then seek her in the Castle of the King of Ireland,” said Fedelma.
“That I will not. Fedelma is here, and Fedelma will come with me,” said the King of the Land of Mist.
“I will not leave him with whom I am plighted,” said Fedelma.
Then the King of the Land of Mist took up the King of Ireland’s Son. High he held him—higher than a tree grows. “I will dash him down on the rocks and break the life within him,” said he.
“Do not so,” said Fedelma. “Tell me. If I go with you what would win me back?”
“Nothing but the sword whose stroke would slay me—the Sword of Light,” said the King of the Land of Mist. He held up the King of Ireland’s Son again, and again he was about to dash him against the rocks. The blue falcon that was overhead flew down and settled on the rock behind her. Fedelma knew that what she and the King of the Land of Mist would say now would be carried some place and told to someone. “Leave my love, the King’s Son, to his rest,” she said.
“If I do not break the life in him will you come with me, Fedelma?”
“I will go with you if you tell again what will win me back from you.”
“The Sword of Light whose stroke will slay me.”
“I will go with you if you swear by all your vows and promises not to make me your wife nor your sweetheart for a year and a day.”