He rolled over, surprising me. His arm came around me and tightened. He said something in that foreign tongue, perhaps Thank you. Or maybe Don’t cry. I pressed my cheek against the fabric of his tunic—wet through, a tear or two would make no difference—and shut my eyes. In time of trial, there is one weapon a druid always has, and that is the lore.

“How about a story?” I murmured. “I know plenty.” There in the growing dark, with the hungry sea washing in and out and our bodies sharing their last warmth, I told a tale of heroes and monsters, and a tale of a boy who accidentally tasted from the cauldron of knowledge, and then I related part of our own family story, for in our past there were brothers turned into swans, and a wicked sorceress whose son was now my beloved teacher, Ciarán. Since this stranger in whose arms I lay probably did not understand a word I was saying, it hardly mattered whether any part of that story might be considered too private to tell.

“But in the end, he turned it all to the good,” I said eventually. “And he taught me everything I know. Almost everything. When I go back I will make my final commitment to being a druid, and then I’ll live in the nemetons all the time, and only see my family on ritual days.”

“Druide,” said the man, showing that he had not only been listening, but might even have understood a word or two. Then we both tensed, for over the washing of the waves and the screaming of the gulls, another sound came: the shrill yapping of a little dog from the path above. Fang had found us.

I sat up abruptly, elbowing my companion in the chest. “Here!” I yelled. “Down here!”

Not long after, there were lanterns, and men coming down the precipitous path—Cathal followed by Gareth and Johnny—and the blissful warmth of a dry blanket around my shoulders. I wanted to climb up by myself, but Gareth lifted me and carried me to the top as if this were the easiest path in the world. The others brought the man up between them. At the top Fang was scampering about, mightily pleased with herself, and close by stood Clodagh, warmly wrapped, with a lantern in her hand and my basket of seaweed over her other arm. Gareth set me on my feet. Clodagh put down lantern and basket and threw her arms around me.

“In the name of all the gods, Sibeal,” my sister said, “has this place turned you into a fearsome warrior so soon?” She stepped back, her hands on my shoulders, and scrutinized me more closely. “You’re freezing cold,” she said. “And hurt, too. There’s blood on your face.”

“I’m fine,” I said, sniffing. “Don’t worry about me. He’s the one who needs help—”