Eyes turn in her direction.

“Cathal is no coward,” she says. “What he needs is an explanation. Do not judge him before he has heard it.”

They seem to be waiting for more.

“Is it not true,” Sibeal says, “that within the margins of this isle your Queen holds total sway? If her power is sufficient to keep Mac Dara at bay, might it not block the spells and charms of any mage who entered her domain?”

The faces of these beings are obscured by the shadow of their hoods; the bright eyes give little away. But I sense a warming, a softening. “It is true, wise one,” one of them says. “Mac Dara’s son will leave the confines of the isle without the Golden Queen. Beyond the barrier of our cliffs, he will be free of the restraints her presence has placed on him.”

“But—” Cathal says, and his voice is less guarded now, “Sibeal used a druid charm to make light, in the underground passage. Why was her magic not blocked?”

“Aaah.” They make the sound as one. It is a sigh, and a song, and a deep and fervent prayer of thanks. “She is the goddess-friend. She is the one who sees true. They are blessed, the wise woman and the one who walks beside her. But for them, Mac Dara’s son, you would not be here. You would not be here to receive our gift.”

“A gift.” Cathal sounds as if, even for him, this is all too much to take in. “What gift is that?”

The small beings move, breaking the circle around him, and converge in a huddle. They resemble a collection of weed-covered rocks. In this place of stone and water, they blend seamlessly. At length one of them glides forward, stopping before Cathal. It stretches out what might be a hand. I cannot see what it offers.

“Take this.” It is the one with the sharp, emphatic voice. “Guard it well. Use it well. The time is coming when Mac Dara must be challenged. He must not continue to stir the seas with his capricious hand, or spoil a realm that once was peaceful and just. No, don’t speak”—when Cathal was ready to argue—“only listen, and take heed. You are too ready to say this is not your task, you cannot do it, you will not do it. One way or another, it must be done. Without you, it cannot be done. But a quandary vexes you; we understand that. This talisman is our Queen’s token. It will protect what you hold most dear until your task is complete. Wear it around your neck on the voyage home, and the Sea People will guard your vessel from the storm.”

Cathal has taken the tiny item in his long-fingered hand, and is examining it in the moonlight. “Thank you,” he says. Nothing more.

“Come forward, Bright Heart,” says the being.

I look at Sibeal; they must mean her.