“That doesn’t surprise me,” Gull said. “Your vocation has been a frequent topic of conversation among the young men of Inis Eala since your arrival, Sibeal. Shortage of marriageable women here, you’ll have noticed. When Liadan visits, she’s generally treated as something close to a goddess. Evan and Cathal are considered remarkably fortunate to have wed two of her nieces. When a third niece appears, young, comely and not spoken for, it’s natural for the men to debate whether she should be following her mentor into a life of self-denial and prayer, or taking the kind of path your aunt did. Of course, Liadan wasn’t simply choosing to wed and have children when she stayed with Bran. When she took on the Chief, she took on all of us, a ragtag mob of the dispossessed, all desperate for a share of the magic she carried within her. It wasn’t just Bran who loved her; it was every last flawed and disreputable one of us.” He put his chin on his hand, remembering. “Sibeal, when the lads here talk about your choices, they wonder why you wouldn’t want a chance to live a full life and make some fellow happy.”

“You shock me, Gull. I can’t believe the men have been talking about this.”

“It’s all perfectly respectful. I don’t suppose any of the fellows thinks he’d have the least chance of diverting you from your vocation. When you’re in your gray robe with your hair plaited up tight, you look severe enough to scare the boldest away. But they can dream. Lot of dreams here on the island.”

I had nothing to say to this. I sat without speaking for a while, watching the steady movement of Ardal’s hand against Fang’s white hair. A druid was always learning; the journey was lifelong. My feelings on Gull’s speech were decidedly mixed. It seemed to me I had just learned several things, some of them quite unexpected.

“What do you think is the best kind of story, Sibeal?” Gull’s deep voice was like a soft cloak, comforting and warm. “The true kind, or a tale of marvels and magic?”

“A wonder tale can be truer than true,” I said. I had learned, during my time in the nemetons, that the deepest kind of truth can be found in the strangest and wildest of stories. One may not meet a fire-breathing dragon on the way to the well. One may not encounter an army of toothed snakes in the woodshed. That does not make the wisdom in those tales any less real.