“Ah, well,” I say, “I can understand. I am no more than a piece of flotsam, washed up at random on your shore. I come clad only in the garments of today, with no mantle of history about me. I am a stranger even to myself. What right have I to demand truth from you? My every word might be a lie.”

Sibeal smiles. “If I were given three guesses as to what you were before you came here, my first guess would be a student of philosophy.”

I am in the library at St. Laorans. By all the saints, Felix, you astonish me with such an argument, says Brother Bernez. Better not speak thus before others, for if your theories on the nature of deity should reach the ears of Duke Remont, you would bring down trouble not only on this old teacher, but on yourself and on all your family. Light falls through a colored window to gleam on his tonsured head, crowning him with jewels of cobalt and crimson. His eyes are kind. I’m serious, Felix, the old philosopher says. The days when one could put forth such ideas openly are gone. Under Remont’s rule, one does not challenge the teachings of the established faith. Your father could lose his position at court.

I ask him, How can it be wrong to search for truth?

“What is it, Ardal?” Sibeal’s voice brings me back. She has risen to her knees, her face white. “What do you see?”

“I . . . ” It was there for a moment, so clear: the sun, the stone walls of the monastery, my wise friend . . . Your father could lose his position at court . . . But he did not. He did not, because I went away in time. I went, and Paul came with me.

You can’t go on your own. Who’s going to keep you out of trouble if I’m not there?

I don’t even know where I’m going, Paul. I might never come back.

We’re brothers, remember? You don’t get rid of me so easily.

“Are you all right?” Sibeal’s eyes are troubled. She puts her hand on my knee as she did once before, and its warmth is good.

“I . . . ” It was so vivid, so real. A true memory, surely. Why can’t I remember what came after? “A philosopher,” I croak. “What would be your second guess?”

She knows I need time. “A priest in training,” she says.

“And your third?”

Her smile quiets my thumping heart. It puts courage in my veins. “A poet,” says Sibeal.

I breathe. My chest hurts; since the sea, all is not as it should be there. “Sibeal, you know that I remembered a little, before. About my brother. Memories from a long time ago.”

She waits.

I glance over my shoulder toward Gull.

“Fast asleep,” Sibeal says in a murmur.