A review of Juilene Osborne-McKnight’s Song of Ireland From Publisher’s Weekly 

“This well-researched historical fantasy retells the origins of the Irish, splitting the narrative between Celtic explorers and the mythical Danu, "little people" native to Celtic Ireland who have power over nature and time….making her latest a sure winner among Irish history buffs and fans of rich, multilayered fantasy.”
 

A review of Juilene Osborne-McKnight’s Song of Ireland from Booklist

Osborne-McKnight continues to refashion the traditional folktales and legends that enhance the charm and define the character of the Irish nation. Using the mystical 'little people' as her narrative springboard, she interweaves two distinct plot strands into an enchanting tale of discovery and adventure. Arriving on the shores of ancient Eire, the Celts discover they must either wrest control of their new homeland from the Danu, the week folk who have inhabited the island since the dawn of time, or learn to coexist with them. As the inevitable power struggle ensues between the Danu and the invaders, the author manages to whip up an irresistible blend of history and mythology that will satisfy the appetites of fans of her previous three fantastical Irish sagas, Daughter of Ireland (2002), I Am of Irelaunde (2000), and Bright Sword of Ireland (2004). - Margaret Flanagan.

An excerpt from Song of Ireland by Juilene Osborne-McKnight

Be fierce against them.” The voice came from behind them, nasal and smoky. 
        The Sisters turned as one. Morrigu stood behind them, the three sisters cloaked in black, their gowns shifting and swaying in the seawind, their huge, black eyes reflecting the silver moonlight. 
        “Banbh, Nemhain, Macha.” Eriu addressed them separately with a formal nod. “We of the Triad Council are willing to listen to your wisdom.” 
        “Wisdom is it?” said Macha. She smiled, her lips folding up into a rictus that looked almost painful. “When have any of the Danu considered us wise?” 
        Eriu resisted swallowing. She looked at them each in turn. Panic rose in her throat when she met the eyes of Nemhain, but she fought it back. Panic is what Nemhain engendered. Everywhere she went, she seemed to be able to draw upon any creature’s worst fear, bring it to the surface, strengthen it until the poor victim gibbered in terror, made terrible decisions based upon that panic. 
     Panic was not what she felt when she regarded Banbh; rather she felt revulsion. It was rumored among her people that Banbh’s favorite use of metaphor were as those of carrion feeders, ravens and vultures, birds of darkness who fed on the blood of the fallen.
     And then there was Macha, their Primary Sister. She was beautiful, although she in no way resembled the People of the Danu, no nor the Penitents. She was taller, even than her sisters. Her long, black hair floated and shifted in the breeze and her dark almond-shaped eyes gave away nothing, reflected everything. Eriu could see herself in them now, small and pale, her cap of cloudy curls ruffling in the wind, her eyes wide and startled.
     Macha was the mistress of Metaphor. Even now, Eriu did not know if she looked upon the real creature or some image Macha wished her to see. Eriu herself had seen Macha disappear into the shapes of wolves or eagles and then lope away into the forest or soar above the earth. All in Metaphor, perfectly sustained.
     “You can think of nothing else to say?” Macha asked, the smoky voice pouring from her. “Perhaps that is because you wonder what the Makers called into Existence when they created us, when the Raveners emerged from the Braid.”
     Eriu decided that honesty would serve her best with this trio. She nodded. “I have wondered it often Morrigu, what the Makers called from the Braid when they called forth the Raveners, for you are as unlike the Danu as Fomor or Fir Bolg.”
     Morrigu shrugged as one. “We are what we are,” said Macha. “But I do find your honesty… fearless and appealing, Eriu. Perhaps they called to some darkness in themselves. Some… hunger. For we are always hungry.” She smiled. “Surely they amplified some fierceness in themselves for the Raveners are fierce and the Danu…well.” She shrugged again, pitying them their weakness Eriu supposed. She decided again on directness.
     “So how would you deal with these Invaders?”
     “Bring the Silver Arms from hiding. Confuse them while they are still at sea. Destroy the Invaders before they reach the shore. Or if they come to shore, destroy them all. Leave the clean-up to the Morrigu.” She grinned her wolfish grin. “We have the preservation of the Danu to think of; all others must perish before that need.”
     “You have not destroyed the Fir Bolg.”
     She shrugged. “Well, they are like cats or dogs, are they not? Simple but domesticated. We enjoy dallying with them sometimes” here Nemhain snickered, “but we do not harm them because there would be no point. Of these newcomers we know not. They could be like Fomorians.”
     “We remember the final battle with the Fomor,” said Banbh. Her voice was harsh, deep, almost masculine. She actually licked her lips; the dark almond eyes flared suddenly, as if a fire had been lit deep within them.
     “Hush!” Macha commanded. “You go too far as always.”
     Eriu was startled. It was the first time she had ever realized that Macha was keeping the sisters in check, holding them like the reins on a pair of horses. Something like pity arose in her.
     Macha must have sensed it, must have felt it wafting toward her. She stepped toward Eriu.
     “Take my hands,” she whispered, softly, gently. Eriu put her hands into the long hands of the Macha. “Ravener and Danu,” she whispered. “At last! This is how it should have been from the first, our two races linked in the Braid, no separation between us. See what we know.”
     Suddenly it all came pouring into Eriu’s mind, the BraidRising, the smoking weapons, the maimed and the dead, the screams of both Danu and Makers, the long journey, the weeping of the Ancients at their Exile, the tumble of the Danu into the sea when the volcano erupted, the Fir Bolg war, the agony of Nuada’s severed arm.
     She staggered back from the weight of it, held her hands up in the moonlight. They bore the marks of burning.
     “This is what we contain,” said Macha softly, her voice pitched low.
     “It is a terrible burden,” said Eriu. She stepped forward suddenly, compelled. She placed her long, slender hand against Macha’s cheek. “I am sorry that you bear it.”
     The Morrigu gasped aloud.
     “We revel in it,” said Nemhain.
     “It feeds us,” said Banbh in her strange, masculine voice.
     Only Macha said nothing, her eyes fixed on Eriu.
     “You are the fulcrum,” Eriu whispered. It was so suddenly clear that she wondered that she had never understood it before. Macha kept the other two in balance. She contained the dark; she repelled the dark. She caused sorrow; she kept sorrow at bay. She engendered evil; she kept evil at bay.
     Macha blinked, nodded once.
     “We will assist you with these Invaders,” Macha said.
     “You will not destroy them.”
     “Until the time comes that you require our destruction. We will assist.”
     “Do you know where the arms are hidden?” 
     Macha made no reply. She touched the triangle at her neck with its spiraled vines. 
Wolf, eagle, darkness, light, void. Gone.