Start with a name. The words reached my mind as clearly as if they had been spoken aloud. Where my own reflection had been in the water, I now saw a man’s. He was a disheveled person with hair of every color from black to white, and a long, thin face, and eyes just like mine. He wore an ancient garment, tattered and torn, and in place of his left arm he had a swan’s wing. A man needs a name.

Finbar. By all the gods. My instincts had been right; some part of him still lingered in this place where he had been almost content. Could I ask more, or would he vanish the moment I spoke?

He must already have a name. I formed the words in my mind, but held myself silent. But he’s too weak to tell us what it is.

You must choose a name for him. It is the first step.

I nodded, my gaze held by the compelling eyes, my skin prickling at the utter strangeness of this. I did not know if I could ask any more; but oh, I had so much to say to him, so much I wanted to tell him . . . I must risk one thing, even if it meant I lost the image. There is a tiny boy at Sevenwaters now. Named after you. My brother. I think he will be a seer. You are loved still; held in highest esteem.

A fleeting smile. The strange eyes were bright.

Act swiftly, Sibeal. He needs your help. The water stirred. A shadow passed across the cavern, turning my skin to gooseflesh, and the image faded to nothing.

I stayed in the cavern, pondering Finbar’s words, until the light told me it was time to return to the settlement. Fang would surely have gone home long ago. I put on my cloak and gathered my belongings. “Farewell,” I whispered. “Thank you.” But there was no answer. Still, Finbar was here. I felt his presence in the deep quiet of the stone, and in the dark stillness of the water, and in the gentle patch of sky. What had he meant? Choosing a name for a man who doubtless had a perfectly good one of his own seemed an odd thing to do, and hardly urgent. I stepped out of the cave and into the narrow, dark passageway. I could not forget that first vision, the crashing waves, the cruel hands, the screaming. Past or future? Fact or possibility?

Fang was still waiting at the tunnel entry, hunkered down on the narrow path, shivering.

“You poor thing.” I bent to stroke her, and she snapped at my fingers. “I’m sorry you had to wait in the cold,” I murmured, straightening, “but not sorry enough to let you bite me. Come on.”