“Oh, that’s right,” said Mac Dara. “Just as she trusted you to hold onto her the last time she fell into deep water. The little tricks you’ve picked up since you came here are insignificant, Cathal. Against my magic they are as candle flames to a great conflagration. I had hoped my son might be made in my mold; lover, warrior, leader without peer. How long must I wait to see that promise fulfilled?”

“You will wait forever.” Cathal stood relaxed and still, his hands loose by his sides, his gaze locked with his father’s. “My future lies in the human world. It lies with Clodagh. I want nothing of what you offer. I want neither riches nor power, and I have no interest at all in the craft of magic.”

“No?” Mac Dara’s brows went up. “I find that hard to believe. Perhaps you are frustrated that your progress is so slow, but you can learn, Cathal. You just deflected those flames, didn’t you?” Was I wrong, or had a slight tinge of uncertainty entered his voice? “As for riches and power, there is no man in the world who does not desire those.”

The current pulled like a wild horse. Surely the water was deeper, almost up to my knees now, though I had advanced no further along the submerged bridge. My back hurt. My legs hurt. My head felt dizzy. You’ve got the ring, you’ve got the ring, I chanted silently to myself. Be brave. Be strong. My body was seized by convulsive shivers—cold or fear, perhaps both. Despite this, I became aware of activity above me. In the trees on either bank and in the air over the bridge there was a continuous, rustling movement, like birds’ wings or the passing of a breeze through leaves. It seemed imperative not to look up. I recognized purpose in Cathal’s stance, intent in the way he was holding his father’s gaze. I held as still as I could, willing my legs to support me just a little longer.