The skin comes down, settling around her form. All happens in a few moments: under the moonlight she changes, growing taller, taller still, as tall as an ancient oak. Wider, longer, her form stretching, her limbs thickening, the features of a lovely woman becoming those of a serpent, a monster, a sea beast like the one in the bay. Her jaw lengthens; the skin that clothes her seems to swell as her form expands to inhabit it fully. Only the eyes are the same, liquid, lambent, full of the moon and the wild sea, but larger, so much larger. They are just like those of the creature that vaulted Liadan in one great leap; the monster that brought us safely out from underground. She is done. She is complete.

“Morrigan’s curse,” someone mutters, and another man makes the sign of the cross.

Svala rears high, pawing the air with her long-clawed forelegs as if to test that everything is working as it should be. She switches her huge tail from side to side; men shrink back against the rocks. The moonlight shines on her scaly skin, and now it is not a patchwork of duns and grays and browns, but a triumphant garment of sparkling silver and glittering gold. Svala was beautiful as a woman. As a creature, she is magnificent.

Knut is wailing. “Save me! Oh gods, save us all!”

One or two of the men bid him be brave. His collapse is unnerving; it compares ill with the bravery of our three survivors. Even Colm is standing quiet now, his arm in Gull’s.

The creature tips back her head and roars. The sound rings out like the braying of a great trumpet, echoing all around the bay. It fades away. There is a heartbeat of silence. Then comes the answer. From the moonlit water rises a great head, a sinewy neck, a broad, scaled back in gleaming blues and greens. The toothed jaws open wide, and Svala’s mate bellows his response. There are no words in it, but I understand his call. Here! I’m here, beloved! Come to me!

But she is not quite ready for that. There is one job to do first, one act to make this tale complete. She turns. I grab hold of Sibeal’s hand and we retreat to safety, for the creature could crush us without even noticing. “Get back!” Cathal shouts, and the men scramble for the other side of the fire. There are no spears in hand, no knives or clubs. The men recognize Sibeal’s authority as a druid, and though every instinct must tell them it is folly to stand before such a monster unarmed, all have obeyed her.

“No! No!” shrieks Knut. “Help me!”