“You say my father is close.” Cathal is exerting hard-won control over his voice. “Then why could I not feel his presence on the voyage here? I thought he would challenge me. He has waited four years for me to leave Inis Eala and come back within his reach. Why did he not confront me as soon as I came out from my safe place?”

Another being speaks; the sound reminds me of a gurgling stream. “She is home. Mac Dara will not come here while her protection lies over the island. No sorcerer has the power to challenge her. No mage may pass within her boundaries, save when she chooses to allow it. As with you, Mac Dara’s son.”

“And beyond the isle, on the journey?”

A third being speaks. I hear in its voice the shrill crying of gulls and the endless song of the ocean. “You are of the Sea People,” it says. “You are kin. On the way to this place, you bore our Queen on your ship. Her protection lay over you and the two who walk with you.” The hooded head swivels; the pinpricks of light that form its eyes are on Sibeal and me. “Druid and bard; teller of tales and singer of songs.” After a moment, the being adds, “Lamp of hope and questing spirit.”

“Left hand and right,” puts in another of the small creatures.

“Moon and sun.”

“Shadow and light.” They are all joining in now, as if it were some kind of game.

“Still pool and waterfall.”

“Conscience and courage.”

A silence after this, as all of them turn their eyes on the one who has just spoken, as if its contribution was somehow inappropriate. For myself, I like greatly what was said, for it recognizes the depth of the bond between Sibeal and me.

“My father troubled you, then, before we brought your Queen home,” says Cathal. “How?”

“Storms.”

“Great waves.”

“Days of darkness.”

“Cloud. Tempest. Icy chill.”

“Monsters from the deep. A plague that killed the fish and left us hungry.”

“Sea-Father fought for us,” a creature said. “He was weakened by that, and by the loss of her whom he loved. If she had not come home when she did we might have lost him, and our isle with him. Mac Dara is strong.”

Cathal stares out across the water. “I cannot fight him,” he says in a low voice. “My craft is gone. There is not a shred of magic in me. I could not so much as raise a spark to make light when it was needed. Even before, I struggled to match my father’s power. Now, he would simply laugh at me. I cannot wage war against a prince of the Otherworld. I cannot even defend my family.”

The silence draws out. The little gray ones start to fade away, merging into rocks and sand and water as if they were the stuff of dream.

Sibeal rises to her feet. “Wait!” she calls softly.