Nobody says anything. Johnny nods. Gareth smiles. Gull gives me a look that reflects his knowledge of the truth: that my courteous speech and calm demeanor conceal a bitter, wretched, sorrowful man.

“We might row over to the mainland and talk to Biddy’s son Clem, Felix,” says Sigurd, putting a hand on my shoulder. “He’s the one who’ll be arranging the first part of the journey for us. If we go now, we can take advantage of the incoming tide. Clem will give us a bed for the night, and we can come back in the morning.”

“Why not?” I say.

It is the beginning of the end.

CHAPTER 15

~Sibeal~

Ciarán is the other part of this, Clodagh had said. The spiritual part; the wise, measured part. I woke from a night of tangled dreams and knew I was not ready to face him. What could I tell him? That I was torn two ways and could not think straight anymore? That I had soaked my pillow with still more tears, and that, when at last I had fallen into an uneasy sleep, my dreams had all been of Felix? How could I explain to my wise kinsman that my body was full of longing for the touch of Felix’s hands and the warmth of his lips on mine? How could I say I regretted now that the two of us had not slipped away together on that moonlit night, the night the gray ones spoke to Cathal on the serpent isle? How could I admit that I wished we had found a secluded corner and taken our joy of each other? At least, then, I would have had that memory to carry with me into a future of austerity and seclusion. How could I tell my mentor that the voices of the gods had fallen deeply, profoundly silent?

I could not face anyone. I needed to be alone. I dressed, then drew aside the curtain to see that Evan was already up and tending to Thorgrim.

“Evan? If anyone asks where I am, please tell them I’ve gone to the cave for the day. I will be back by supper time.”

I withdrew and headed out my door before he could give words to the doubt I saw on his face. No sign of Fang this morning. Perhaps it was too early even for her. But not for everyone. As I walked toward the cliff path I saw two figures down by the water, near the fisherman’s cottage, deep in conversation. One wore a druid’s robe, the other was clad all in black. One had hair of deepest red, the other was dark as night. Ciarán and Cathal. I shivered. Enmeshed in my own woes, I had lost sight of what was to come for them, and perhaps for us all. Out beyond the safe margin of Inis Eala, Mac Dara still waited. I thought of the tiny tokens around the fragile necks of those two babes. What if a talisman was lost or broken? What if the cord snapped? What if the child was out playing and . . . No, I would not think of that. As soon as I imagined Firinne and her brother at three or four, I saw my own daughter running and climbing and being swung up high by her father, with her own talisman around her neck, and that was simply too hard to bear.