What would you say, Sibeal, if you could see this? There is love in it, and sacrifice, and completion. There is a bright light in time of darkness. There is, in the end, an understanding that comes from deep in the spirit. Those men Gull spoke of, those who hope, foolishly, selfishly, that you might not be entirely committed to your future path—for you are young in years, if not in wisdom—hope in vain. If ever there was a druid’s augury, this is it. From a man like me, this path must lead you far, far away.

~Sibeal~

“Sibeal, may I speak with you?”

I jumped, startled; I had not heard Cathal coming. “Of course. You’re abroad early.” I was seated on the rocks overlooking the little cove where I had encountered Svala, the day Knut asked me to keep her secrets to myself.

“You, too.”

“I usually go walking before breakfast.” It was a journey to greet earth and wind, sun and cloud and hovering gulls. It helped me step forth from the wild landscape of dreams.

Cathal seated himself beside me, gazing out to the rocky islets off the coast. He looked grim. Today the sea matched his mood; it was a sullen gray under scudding clouds. For a while, neither of us spoke. When the silence had almost become awkward, Cathal said, “Sibeal, we spoke before about scrying.”

“Mm-hm.”

“The dreams continue. They persist, night by night the same.”

“What is it you want to know, and cannot bring yourself to ask?”

“About the child: if it will be born safely, if it will thrive and be well. About Clodagh.” His jaw was set tight. Someone who did not know him might have thought the look in his eyes was anger. Perhaps, in part, it was; anger that he was driven to this. “I need to know, Sibeal. I thought perhaps you . . . ?”

I had seen nothing concerning Clodagh and her baby; I had not sought guidance on the matter and I had no intention of doing so. Now, with a suddenness that was becoming familiar since my arrival on Inis Eala, an image came to me: a tiny child, a boy, lying naked on a shawl of many colors. He was so small. Even my little brother, Finbar, born many days before his time, had from the first been more robust than that. Or did I misremember? Watching over the babe was a tall, black-cloaked man. They were out of doors, in the shade of old oaks. I could not quite see the man’s face, but it was surely Cathal. I hoped it was Cathal. The vision faded.