Venus and the Sea People

being Volume 1 of the Fall of the Sea People

by

Henry Hallan

Leabhar Cnoc Mhuilinn

This is an excerpt and should be free of charge.

“Θεοσ δε θεοσ […] εν νομοισ βασιλενων, ατε δυναμενοσ καθοραν τα τοιαντα, εννοησασ γενοσ επιεικεσ αθλιωσ διατιθεμενον, δικην αυτοισ επιθειναι βουληθεισ, ινα γενοιντο εμμελεστεροι σωφρονισθεντεσ, συνηγειρεν θεουσ παντασ εισ την τιμιωτατην αυτων οικησιν, η δη κατα μεσον παντοσ του κοσμου βεβηκυια καθοα παντα οσα γενεσεωσ μετειληφεν, και συναγειρασ ειπεν:-”

- “Κριτιασ”, Πλατον

“…The god of gods, who rules according to law, and is able to see into such things, perceiving that an honourable race was in a woeful plight, and wanting to inflict punishment on them, that they might be chastened and improve, collected all the gods into their most holy habitation, which, being placed in the centre of the world, beholds all created things. And when he had called them together, he spake as follows:-”

- translated by Benjamin Jowett

Prologue

Long long ago, after the ice had receded but before the myths that foreshadowed our history were established, a mother was arguing with her daughter. They lived in a small village in the northeastern corner of their land; it was just a few one-room huts of stones and thatch gathered around the stream that became the Teorainn river. The daughter had hair the colour of straw and blue eyes, like her parents. She was considered handsome rather than pretty, with a shy face made serious by a strong nose, but a mouth that would betray it with a smile of mischief. The daughter was a singer and piper, talented beyond her years, and word of her skills had reached the far-off City. The rulers of the City had sent for her, to entertain them and their guests on this day, the Day of Autumn.

Éirime’s mother owned a big pottery bowl, large enough to stand in and almost too large to lift. Éirime was standing in it, naked in front of the fire, and her mother was pouring water on her from a small pot. As she helped her daughter to wash, she spoke about what would happen that day. Mother was excited.

“They’re coming to take you to the Festival of Selection, in the City of the Sea People. You will be performing for the Mentor and the City. Nobody from our world has ever done that before. To think: someone from our village going to the big City to entertain on the Day of Autumn.”

Éirime didn’t want to go. She felt cold and self-conscious, her mother was making far too much fuss, and the journey to the big City filled her with vague fears. She had complained so much that, for one of the very few times in her life, she had fought with her father. Normally she could rely on his calm, but since the news had come that she was to sing, he had fretted nearly as much as her mother. It was too much. She felt too old for this kind of attention, and the soap was getting in her eyes.

But soon the soap was gone, and her mother took honeysuckle, the last of the summer blooms, and rubbed it on her arms and legs to scent her. The sensation was ticklish and unpleasant, but she felt grown-up that her mother would waste the flowers to make her smell good.

Her mother helped her to step out without tipping the bowl, wrapped her in a woollen blanket to dry, and opened the chest by the door. She rummaged around a bit while Éirime shivered, then lifted out a linen dress. Éirime was horrified.

“I can’t wear that, Mammy.”

“Why not? It’s the best dress we own, and it’s the only thing we have that could be good enough.”

“But Mammy, that’s your wedding dress. That will be my wedding dress.”

“Well, maybe you’ll meet a husband in the big City.”

“Mammy, that’s stupid!” Éirime objected. “If I wear it when I meet him, what will I wear on my wedding day? And anyway,” she added “I don’t want a husband from the big City. I want to marry a shepherd and take care of his sheep on the hill.”

“If you wear your old woollen thing, you won’t be marrying anybody from the big City.”

“I don’t want anybody from the City,” she repeated.

“Éirime,” warned her father, and she remembered how they had fought and she blushed.

Her mother brought the dress over.

“Come on, put it on,” her mother said.

Éirime put her arms out, and lifted it over her head. The fine cloth felt strange, harder and less scratchy than the wool she was used to. Her mother had other things too: a pebble of turquoise from the river, pierced and with a leather thong; fine sandals with small beads of polished bone; and a garland of flowers that her cousin, Óire, had woven from the bushes and pasture: autumn chrysanthemums in brilliant yellow. Each one was put on her. Her hair combed and towelled, was pale next to the yellow gold of the blooms. Her mother opened the doorway, letting in light and air, and led her over into the sunshine.

“There,” said her mother when she was dressed in everything. “You look beautiful now, fit to meet people from the big City. Don’t you feel beautiful?”

Éirime stood in the unfamiliar clothes, the beads on the sandals pressing on her feet, the weight of the flowers in her hair, the strange feeling of the linen around her waist and knees, the cold turquoise on her chest and the scent of honeysuckle in her nostrils. It surprised her, but dressed up, she did feel more confident, more happy.

“I feel better, Mammy,” she said reluctantly.

“There you are, then.”

“But I don’t want to marry a man from the big City.”

Before her mother could speak, her father said, “You don’t have to marry anyone you don’t want to. But dressed like that, you can marry anyone you like.”

Whatever her mother was going to add was lost. Éirime had been looking out of the door, hoping that nobody would see her and also hoping that someone would. She saw Óire looking across the river to the south. Then she turned around. She saw Éirime come out of their house, and Éirime could see in her cousin’s green eyes that she was shocked by how pretty Éirime was. Then Óire saw something else, and pointed into the sky, to the south.

“They’re coming,” Óire shouted.

Faces appeared at every doorway in the village. Éirime saw the shepherds running back to their houses, her brother among them. She grabbed her goatskin jacket.

“You can’t wear that smelly old thing to the big City,” her mother objected.

“Maybe not,” her father replied, “but if she doesn’t wear it on the Flyer, she’ll die of cold before she gets there.”

But Éirime didn’t hear the conclusion of the argument: jacket in hand, she ran out to see the Flyers for herself.

As the Flyers descended towards the village, the villagers did not know what to stare at most. They had rarely seen Flyers, and even more rarely seen one with the turquoise blue of the Sea People’s cloaks in it. But then there was Éirime. People knew she was the prettiest girl in the village, as well as being the best singer. People also knew that she might be the best singer in the province, or maybe even in the world: the visits of the Flyers, bringing strangers to hear her voice and her performance for the entertainment of others were proof enough of that. But seeing her ready for the City, she seemed like she must be the most beautiful peasant girl in the world too: not a farmer like them but as attractive as the Sea People themselves.

The Flyers landed. As well as the Sea People, there were servants or guards: tall people whose grey clothing was completely unrecognisable to the villagers. “People from the City,” they whispered, “not like us.”

Éirime was led quickly to the Flyers, and sat among the tall strangers. Among them and the Sea People she seemed tiny, a little speck of white and gold among the blue and the grey. Then the command was given, the Flyers lifted, and they were swallowed up by the sky.

Éirime’s brother caught up, breathless, and stood with his parents at the doorway of their little hut. His father looked up into the sky, shading his eyes from the bright morning sun, but his mother wouldn’t look.

“I can still see them,” his father said, “They look so high, like a bird.”

“I will watch when they bring her home to me,” his mother replied.

“It might be dark,” his father pointed out. “The Festival of Selection at the City might last all day.”

“I will watch them when they bring her home,” his mother repeated. “Not before.”

— 1 —

The Shepherdess

Two men were in the Forest. They were both tall and they both wore turquoise blue cloaks but, other than that, they could not have been more different.

“What I still don’t understand is why it’s important, my love,” the rider said.

He was tall like his companion, but his soft, deep brown skin was stretched over a sparse frame, over elegant high cheekbones. His voice was high and musical.

“I know that you want any news you hear of her,” he continued, “but why not simply track her and ask?”

“I don’t want to find her, Miotal,” his companion growled, “I want to find out about her.”

As tall as Miotal, Aclaí was pale-skinned, with a heavy frame, short fair hair and a stubble that could almost be a beard. He picked his way through the Forest, leading his companion and the other horse through the overhanging branches of a willow, following the alarm-call of a bird.

Aclaí asked, “How long have you known her?”

“Long enough,” replied Miotal.

“Then you know why I am curious. Have you ever known her go into the Forest by choice?”

“I don’t remember her doing so. But why is that important?”

“People don’t do things without a reason, Miotal.”

“I understand that,” he replied. He was about to ask again why Aclaí didn’t simply ask her, but then he remembered why. Instead he asked “What do you think that reason is?”

“She is Retired. She is going somewhere to make a new life.”

“How far do you think she has gone?” Miotal remembered something Éirime had said, something she had always said. “Do you think she is looking for Iolar? She always thought he survived, didn’t she?”

“She is not looking for Iolar,” Aclaí replied, with surprising vehemence. “He went into the Forest only a month after she was Selected. The Forest was much more dangerous then. You would have to go a lot deeper today to encounter the sort of monsters we met every day. Nobody does that.”

“Except for those that March on Chaos,” replied Miotal, regretting it almost as he said it.

“People don’t Retire in order to March on Chaos, Miotal. Marching on Chaos doesn’t need any permission. The Mentor knows that people die in the Forest — that is why it is an honourable death, even if it is a futile one.”

“Futile? Those who March on Chaos destroy monsters that would otherwise be a threat to us. Someone of Immortal Rank would kill many of them before they died.”

“And antagonise a lot more. When Novices choose to keep going deeper into the Forest and never turn back, they won’t get far before something eats them. But when Immortals do, they will go deeper than we do normally. It happens every few generations, and there are monsters that never see a human being for generations. What would we do if a type of monster we’d never seen before came into our world, killing all before it?”

“We would track it back and make sure it never happened again.”

“And what do you think they do? We see surges of monsters sometimes, and who is to say that they don’t follow a March on Chaos back to the City?”

“If you really think the March on Chaos is a Tradition that causes the City so much destruction, why encourage it?”

“Who says I encourage it?”

Miotal seemed about to answer, then he thought.

“You don’t speak out against it, my love,” he answered, weakly.

“I don’t. Sometimes it is the only escape for someone. I don’t speak out against everything that is wrong with the City. Do you?”

“Aclaí, I have learned not to speak out against anything in the City.”

“That is healthy,” observed Aclaí.

“Especially for the rest of us, love. We’re not all favourites.”

“Favourites are more likely to be overheard,” Aclaí commented. They rode on. Then he added, “She has not Marched on Chaos, Miotal.”

“How do you know?”

They rode on more, Aclaí following the trail, and the mysterious paths that stitched the woodland together to make the Forest.

Eventually Aclaí answered, “I don’t know. If she is Marching on Chaos, if she has found that much courage, then I will try and change her mind.”

“And if you can’t? What then, Aclaí my love?”

“Then I will March by her side,” he answered, simply, “and —”

He stopped, lifted his head to see. He had heard something.

Then Miotal heard it himself. It was the metal ringing of a sword: a sword of the Sea People. Aclaí climbed on to his horse, nudged it into a run with a kick of the heels, and leaned forward, to guide the horse with his breathing. Miotal kicked too, and his horse sped to follow. They drew their swords as they rode.

Ahead they could hear screams, and shouting, and the strange cries of the wild monsters of the Forest. Aclaí and Miotal both had armour on their Silver Cords, and as soon as they thought of the Silver Cord, they were wearing the armour. As they were both Immortal Rank, within the armour their bodies became insubstantial, and so immune to simple physical injury. It was not something they felt, but they both knew it was true.

Then they were among the monsters. These were some sort of fo-mórach: primitive lesser giant types, with humanlike bodies, long legs with hooves, and goat-like heads. Aclaí was the first there, and he was met with spear-points, surrounding him, all tipped with roughly-made heads of Metal. As he breathed calmness to the horse, he swept his sword about one-handed, the razor edge chopping easily through the shafts of spears, or through the limbs of any of the giants that were foolish enough to get close. Behind him he heard Miotal shout Words of Power, calling for a Manifestation of Fire, and he felt rather than heard the pressure wave as the surrounding woodland exploded into flame. Aclaí thought that he would not have chosen fire, not in the woods in the Month of Darkness, but their problems were more immediate than that.

The giants fell back, and Aclaí urged his horse on, towards the source of the human sounds. The giants were too well organised for their intelligence, though, and Aclaí and Miotal knew there must be another creature leading them. As they rode into the clearing, Aclaí saw a figure with a hooded robe, and two vast spiders. The hooded shape was twice the size of a man, and from the front of the robe, tentacles were reaching over twice a man’s length. Clutched in them was a girl from the City, armoured but with her helm missing, struggling to get her sword to the tentacles that enfolded her. She was small, and brown, with eyes from the Great Ocean, and she looked terrified. Another girl was fighting off the spiders, and by her feet was the body of a boy. The one in the tentacles had a broad nose, and her hair was already streaked with grey, but the girl fighting the spiders was young, with delicate dark features and thick black hair. She looked around as they rode in, and one of the spiders leaped on her.

Aclaí sighted along the edge of his sword, and breathed Power: green light flashed from the tip, and the spider was gone. Then he swung the blade right around his head, and cut down and through the robed creature, the whole weight of the horse’s charge bearing through the sweep. The creature was cut right through, and the parts collapsed. Miotal, riding just behind him, enveloped the fallen body in fire, before it could re-form and attack them again.

That just left the other spider, and now Aclaí called Words of Power, this time to summon a Manifestation of Ice. The spider didn’t seem affected, it just stood still, although hoarfrost was now forming on it. But the girl who was fighting it was shaking, and suddenly she fell to the ground, convulsing.

Aclaí looked at the two that had fallen. The venom of the spider would swiftly overcome the girl, and the fallen boy had the chest part of his armour open, and Aclaí could see internal organs. The girl who had been in the tentacles rushed to him.

“My lord Aclaí,” she begged, “he’s still alive.”

Aclaí could see that both of them would need the Words of Restoration, and that Miotal would be of no help there.

He called out, “Miotal, circle around and make sure they don’t have reinforcements. I’ll get these back on their feet.”

He had only a few moments, and he knew he must work without Miotal watching if he was to save them both. As Miotal rode away into the woods, Aclaí leaped down. The boy was nearest. A closer look told him that he was right: the boy’s entrails were not only exposed, but a significant portion was missing. He was still awake, somehow, and he spoke, fighting for breath.

“Lord Aclaí,” he gasped, “help Blátha. Please, my lord.”

Something about the words reminded Aclaí of why they were in the Forest, and he went over to the girl instead, the Words of Restoration already forming in his mind. The Words of Restoration are a powerful Formula of Words, and Aclaí had to concentrate on his breathing, to feel the Power so he could utter them and make them work. The girl had puncture marks from the bite on the side of her head, one deep into the neck, the other behind the ear, under her long hair, into the skull, planting the venom straight into the brain. Still exhilarated from the fight, and then again by such powerful Words, he watched as the wounds closed up, and the colour returned. He didn’t even wait to see her rise: he had to get back to the boy before Miotal returned.

The other girl was cradling the boy.

“You can’t die,” she wept, shaking him. “You might not be able to live without her, but how am I supposed to live without you?”

Aclaí spoke to her as he hurried up to them.

“He might not be dead. Let me see.”

But as he bent down, he heard Miotal ride back.

“He’s dead, Aclaí,” Miotal said. “There’s nothing we can do.”

And, listening to Miotal’s voice, Aclaí knew he was right. To raise the dead was a forbidden Art, and had been longer than Aclaí had been at the City.

Aclaí held out his hand to the girl, still trying to remember her name. He couldn’t. He could see that she was of the seventh Novice Rank from her sword. The other girl, Blátha, he recognised. She had been among the Favourites for a while, a few years back, and she was five Ranks above the other two. She came over, and the girls embraced.

“I’m sorry, Féileacána,” Blátha whispered. “I know you loved him.”

Aclaí saw it, and felt angry, angry at Miotal for returning too quickly, angry at all the things that the City forbade.

“I am sorry,” he told Féileacána.

“You did everything you could, Lord Aclaí,” she replied. “We all know the rules of the City.”

He wondered then if she knew what he had wanted to do. But the rules were about more than not getting caught. They were deeper than that, burned into him. Every time he broke the rules of the City, it tore at his heart. He was enchained by Words of Power, and he believed that he would never break free.

It was raining, and it was getting dark, but she was not cold. Her blue cloak was not just a symbol of her order, but it also kept her warm and dry, no matter how cold or wet it was. Beneath her the horse was warm, too, and she was not urging it on: they were walking along the old road to the village. Riding faster than walking pace needed concentration, even with her Rank and training, and she felt no need to hurry. If she had wanted speed, she would have used a Flyer. She was through the Forest now, the part of the journey that had made her afraid when she was planning. Now that was behind her, and she had surprised herself with how little there had been for her to fear. She wanted the journey to finish as it had been: the horse to do the walking while she sang, while she daydreamed, while she remembered. She had waited long enough to come home. A few more hours would not hurt.

Peering through the falling rain, the fading light, she could see that the buildings were not as she remembered them from when she was a girl. Things had changed since the representatives from the City had arrived, in the years since they had taken her away to Selection, since she had been chosen to live in the Land of the Forever Young. The buildings were still made of stone and thatch, but they were bigger, more spacious, better at keeping out the weather. Modern conveniences came from the City: lights; warmth; healing for injuries and illness; and the Visions for their education, to teach them about the Sea People. Every building she had known as a girl had been rebuilt, extended, enlarged.

She rode past the unfamiliar houses, past an unfamiliar inn, to the new bridge where the ford had been, and over to where her parents house had stood. She imagined she could see a lump in the ground where the stones had been, but the building she could see was new: another inn, in an orchard by the river, next to a wharf with merchants’ boats tied up. The sign showed a girl in a sheepskin, sitting on a rock, a wooden flute in her hands, the mouthpiece hovering by her lips, and a shepherd’s looped staff by her feet. Beside her a bird was perched, singing. The girl looked very like she had when she was younger: straight straw-blonde hair that covered her neck, framing a serious face with a strong nose, and a slight, boyish figure. The sign showed the name of the inn, without writing: the Songbird and the Shepherdess. She guided her horse over, stepped down, tied the halter of her horse to the rail, and went in.

The innkeeper had heard the horse walking along the road, and so had many of the guests. A horse on the road north of the river was unusual, as most visitors arrived by boat: they were looking around as the door opened. As she stood in the haze and the firelight, the first thing they noticed about the visitor was her cloak. Only the Sea People were permitted to wear the blue and her cloak marked her as one of them. She pulled the hood back and her hair and face were dry, for all that she must have ridden for hours in the rain. Her face was young, but in her eyes there was a look suggesting she had seen too many things. Well, they had all heard tales of what happened in the Forest.

She came over to the innkeeper, the locals getting quickly out of her way and bowing their heads. As she walked through them, he could see that she was shorter than him by at least a head height. For those who thought the Sea People were all seven feet tall, their eyes flashing fire, the little sad-eyed girl did not match the glory of her cloak.

Beneath her cloak she was wearing boots, tall and practical for riding, and a loose white dress on her slim frame. The dress was a simple design, but the linen of it was more finely woven than anything a village girl would wear to travel. He guessed she was young, with less than twenty summers, not long at the City. She would not have reached the Eighth Rank, so she was here on her Forest service. At her hip there was no sword, which would have given her Rank at a glance. Instead he saw a flute and a harp on her belt, such as might be played by anyone in the village, but made of fine materials: beautiful things. He could also see that she was beautiful, as the Sea People always were.

“Good evening, sir. Do you have space for me, and for my horse?” she asked.

Her accent was local, which surprised him, but his caution won over his curiosity and he didn’t ask. Her voice was soft, hardly more than a whisper. Her tones were gentle, honestly asking it seemed, not giving orders, a courtesy that she had no reason to extend.

“Of course, my lady,” he replied.

He was an older man, with only a small amount of silver-grey hair around his ears, and a badly-trimmed beard.

“My stable-boy will take care of the horse,” he continued. “Let me show you our best room. It is not much, but this is a country place.”

She smiled at him, reassuring.

“I was born in a one-room hut, such as your ancestors lived in. I have slept on silk enough. Whatever you have will be fine with me.”

He led her out of the commons, to where the private rooms were, and showed her the room under the eaves, with the hearthstone under the smoke-hole, and the small bed. The sheets may not have been silk, but at least they were linen.

“This is all we have, my lady.”

“What can I give you for letting me stay?” she asked.

“I cannot take anything from someone like you, my lady. It is our duty to the City…”

Instead of arguing, she found a thong at her neck, untied it, and removed a little gold statuette of a rabbit.

“I will pay you this gold piece for your room and for the horse,” she told him. He recognised beneath the softness of her voice the tone of an order given. She continued, “Have ye been expecting one of us here?”

“We had asked for a Steward, my lady. We had hoped so, anyway. We are a long way from Port Teorainn.”

“The Mentor has given me permission and I would like to try and be yere Steward, at least for a while.” She was looking at him with something in her eyes he could not identify, not in a blue-robe like her. “That is,” she added, “if ye will have me.”

“Of course we will have you,” he replied, hoping to get the tone right. “We hoped to be so honoured, my lady.”

“I am afraid I have never been a Steward before, not even for a small village. I might not be any good at it. I might not do it for long. But we can try.”

“We’ve never had a Steward, my lady.” He looked at how she was, and began to suspect that she really was as unassuming as she seemed. It was most strange. “I am sure everyone will try to make you feel at home, my lady,” he added, knowing it was probably too familiar.

“I am home.”

“You were born in Anleacán, my lady?” he asked, wondering.

“I was,” she replied. “I was born and raised here, not sixty paces from this spot.”

“I never heard of it, my lady,” he replied.

“Well,” she mused, “it was a long time ago. I left when I was no more than a girl, and I never came back. Nobody will remember.”

He did remember: there had been a blue-robe born and raised in the village, a long time ago. But she was a legend, not a quiet, serious-faced young woman. He felt the hollow weakness in his belly as he suspected who she was.

“Who are you, my lady?” But he knew. “Are you really her?”

“I am,” she answered, a little disappointed. “I thought ye would have forgotten.”

“We hadn’t forgotten you, my lady,” he stammered. “This house is named for you.” He tried to steady his breath. “I am sorry if my words have caused offense,” he blurted. “I thought you were much younger than you are, my lady. I did not realise that a village like ours would get such a Steward. I did not realise that an Immortal, one of your Rank, a Favourite, would ever be a Steward. Not of a little place like Áthaiteorann.”

“Don’t be afraid,” she replied. “I liked being unknown. I told you, I chose to come here, I asked the Mentor to be permitted to leave the City, to come and be yere Steward. I wanted to come home. I hoped people would have forgotten, after so long, but I should have guessed when I saw your sign.”

“Nobody has forgotten, my lady, people remember you. Especially in this house. You are one of the proudest stories our village knows. We always imagine that you remember us fondly and that you protect us and speak in our favour. That is why we asked, my lady.”

“If ye only knew, the story might not seem so proud,” she mused. But then she added, “I do remember ye. I want ye to continue to think that. But perhaps it would be better if my name was not used. Would you call me ‘Caora’ and vaguely remember my going to the City? You can remember my name as ‘Caora’ with the name of your inn? I would like to be yere Steward, but I couldn’t bear to be myself. Would you tell people that I am my own Favourite?”

“Are you sure, my lady?”

“I don’t want to be her. Does the rest of the village care?”

“We all care, my lady. My family especially. We are your brother’s family, my lady. You are the oldest of our family, my lady. Our ancestor, and ancestor to most of the village.”

“I am not, landlord. I am nobody’s ancestor: I have no children. The Sea People do not marry.”

“But you are our many-times-great-aunt, my lady, and that counts you an ancestor to us. The blood of your parents flows in us too, and the spark of talent that goes with it. It is Anleacán’s Gift. And we remember you.”

“Then I will have to be ‘Caora’.”

Liús worked the brush over the pony’s neck, and down to the flanks.

“They do get you in a mess in the Forest,” he whispered. The skin on the horse twitched and flicked beneath the hair as he picked out the mud and blood. “You don’t want to go out there any more than I do.”

He was a blond man, with fair eyes, from the land east of the Archipelago. He put the brush and comb down, and went out. Outside the stable he saw that Lord Aclaí and Lord Miotal had arrived.

“My lords,” Liús said.

He took the halters to control the horses’ heads, held them while the lords dismounted, then shooed the horses into the stable, remembering to use his breath on their heads the way his father had taught, not the way they taught in the City. The way they taught in the City was so hard.

The larger of the Immortals followed him into the stables. Liús looked around.

“My lord Aclaí?” Liús asked.

“You were Selected only this year, weren’t you, Liús?”

“I was, my lord,” Liús replied, astonished that the Oldest should even remember him.

“Where is your lover?”

Liús felt a moment of fear.

“My lover, my lord?” he replied.

“You know what I am talking about. Ye must keep it secret from the Mentor, you know,” Aclaí advised him. “Keep it secret even after she is Initiated. If he finds out that there is a real love between two of the Sea People, he might choose to break it. The broken pieces remain, but the love can never be mended. The Sea People do not marry, Liús: remember that, and love in secret, if ye have to love at all.”

Liús was about to deny it, but Aclaí had already turned to leave.

“My lord?” Liús asked.

Aclaí turned back.

“Was there something else?” Aclaí asked.

“Lord Aclaí, would you be able to get Éise to the Mentor, get her Initiated soon?”

“Is that what you want?”

“It is what needs to happen, my lord. It is for the best.”

“It is. I will see what I can do.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Liús replied. He stared after the departing Lord Aclaí and he remembered whose departure it was that Aclaí and Miotal had been tracking. For half a second he thought the obvious, but then his mind shied away from the possibility. Lord Aclaí was too cold and powerful a man to love anyone, least of all someone so gentle, so dreamy, and so melancholically drunken as her.

When she had eaten, and they had opened a skin of wine for her, Caora played for the crowd in the commons. At first they had listened for fear of interrupting a blue-robe, but as the harp introduced an air of their own village, they paid attention. When her voice took up the words, they could think of nothing else: they had never heard their own songs performed with such talent.

Later, as she was drinking, the innkeeper spoke to some of the villagers, three men and a dog.

“Who is she, Ólachán?” one man whispered, as he scratched the ears of the dog at his feet.

“She is Lady Caora, Reo, and she is our Steward.” It was good news, and he told it as good news, although to lie about someone so important still frightened him. “The Mentor has sent us a Steward, like we asked.”

“How does she know our songs?” asked Ordóg, a younger man with red hair.

“It is as if she were the Lady herself,” Reo added. Ioraí, the largest, nodded.

“The Lady taught her,” the innkeeper quickly explained. “She is the Lady’s Favourite, she tells me.” He added “She’s my relative, a second cousin, removed once. Her parents moved to the City, years ago.”

“So she is young, a Novice?” Ordóg asked.

Ólachán tried not to let his nerves show. “What did you expect, Ordóg? Lord Miotal? Lady Damhánalla? This is not Port Teorainn, you know.”

“Hush,” said Ioraí. “She’s starting again.”

Ólachán told everyone about Caora, and the word spread quickly. But when his guests had gone home, and they were getting ready for bed, his wife Beatha spoke to him.

“You never told me about your cousins in Ceatha, Ólachán,” she chided. Then, when she saw his face, she stopped, went over and took his hand. “What is the matter?” she coaxed.

“It’s Lady Caora,” he explained.

“Is this to do with that nephew of yours who..?”

“It’s nothing to do with Colm.”

“But she is his sister, is she? Surely that would make her your niece, not cousin. You’re related to her through…”

“Beatha, listen to me. It’s much worse than that. Lady Caora is a dangerous person.”

“Oh, Ólachán, you’re far too jumpy. She’s probably about the same age as Saonta. And she’s far better mannered. The Lady would never have sent us someone who would hurt us, she loves Áthaiteorann too much.”

“Beatha, everyone talks about the Lady like that, but think about it. She is just a few years younger than Lord Aclaí; she is older and higher-Rank than the Steward of Port Teorainn. She is Second Oldest, Beatha. You presume she is kind, but nobody living in Áthaiteorann has ever met her.”

“Not true, Ólachán. Lady Caora has met her. She’s the Lady’s favourite, even though I thought she didn’t have favourites. And she’s your mysterious cousin.”

“She is not, Beatha.”

“Then why..?” It was Beatha’s turn to look scared. “Ólachán, do you realise what trouble we would get in if you have been making up stories about something like that?”

“Wait, keep your voice down,” Ólachán begged. “I said it because she told me to say it.”

“Why in the world would she…?”

“Beatha, love, think. She knows our songs. She speaks like one of us. She wants people to think she is my cousin, to explain why she seems to come from here.”

“Who is she? Why would the Lady send someone who..?”

“The Lady didn’t send her, Beatha my love.”

“Oh,” Beatha replied. She sat, and stared at her knees. “What can we do? So she isn’t the Lady’s favourite? Does the Lady know she is here, even?”

“She does, Beatha. But if the Lady Herself was here, would that make it all right?”

“I’m not sure anymore. As you said, she is Second Oldest, nearly as high a Rank as Lord Aclaí. If Lord Aclaí was here, it wouldn’t be all right!”

He sighed as he made up his mind.

“Beatha, I’ll tell you a secret, but I need you to promise me that you won’t tell this to anyone. Not your mother, not your sisters, nobody.”

Beatha looked injured, but she judged her husband’s face.

“I won’t,” she replied.

“You promise me.”

“I promise,” she agreed. “Don’t you trust me?”

“After that business with Flannbhuía and her ..?”

“I said I was sorry, Ólachán. How many years are you going to remember?”

“This time it’s serious, Beatha. This is a secret about the blue-robes, about one of the oldest of them.”

“Lord Aclaí?”

“Not Lord Aclaí, which is the one comfort. But it is nearly as bad. I know I said that Lady Caora wasn’t sent by the Lady Herself. You see, Lady Caora is the Lady Herself.”

“Can it be possible?”

“Beatha, you heard her sing.”

“Oh. Then what are we to do?”

“Take care of her. And do as she tells us. She told us to pretend that she is her own favourite, and that she is my cousin.”

“She doesn’t have favourites, everyone knows that. She’s never even taken a candidate to Selection.”

“We can’t argue, Beatha. That is what she asked me to say.”

In the morning, Beatha remembered how Ólachán had forbidden her to tell anyone, and reminded her of how “Caora,” was one of the Immortals, and how badly, how savagely things might go if her orders were disobeyed.

So before telling anyone, Beatha swore them to secrecy. She told her sisters, and her mother. They in turn swore others to secrecy, before telling them too. So the outcome was that within days of Caora arriving to be their Steward, most of the village was pretending she was a young Novice of the Sea People, and Favourite of their village’s most honoured daughter; but they all secretly knew, with fear and pride, that she was the Lady herself, Lady Éirime, their village’s long-lost daughter, come home at last.

— 2 —

The City of Immortals

To a watcher from the modern day, looking down on the world of the Sea People, what would have stood out most about that Neolithic planet was the Land of the Immortals: as if the little island that would one day be called Bermuda had been stretched out a hundred miles south and west. Going lower, the island would have become stranger: the landscape was not quite shaped right; the rivers had not meandered in their valleys and cut through flood plains; and most of it was covered in pasture and fields. There were trees, but the trees were planted regularly, in neat rows, like a giant version of the maize that was planted in the fields. There was no wild forest throughout the entire Land of the Immortals. That was no accident, for the feud between humanity and the wild Forest was a thousand years old when Éirime went home.

Halfway up the Land of the Immortals, on a bay facing east, was the City of the Sea People. The City was built on a hill, around which a river wound on its way to the sea. The river and the sea formed a harbour, and the harbour was filled with boats, large and small. Most of them were flimsy structures, no more than rafts made of logs or reeds lashed together, made to withstand the ocean by Words of Power: what sea trade there was always came to the City, so of course the traders’ boats were made using the arts of the Sea People.

Over the river there were two crossings: one spanned the river at the top of the harbour, and the other was on the harbour walls, the gap into the haven bridged by a wooden walkway counterweighted with immense stones, that swung up when the ships came and went. This artifice could have been assembled by hordes of slaves, working with rollers, levers, and ropes, but that was not the way the Sea People did things. The landward bridge led out through the fields to the Grey Gate, a great stone arch that led to other worlds.

On the outer side of the river’s curve, by the fields, the houses were made of sun-dried brick, with roofs of reed thatch. Here maybe five hundred dwellings stood: five hundred families of ordinary people drawn by the first City humanity made. Five hundred dwellings would look to a modern visitor like very little, although at night he would recognise things like the lighting in the streets. In the Stone Age, it was a great thing, the pattern of all future cities.

On the inner side of the river’s curve, the wooden bridge and the stone walkway of the breakwater entered the stone walls that marked the outer perimeter of the City on the Hill. To enter through either the Land Gate or the Sea Gate was to enter the world of the Immortals. Except during certain celebration days, ordinary men could not enter either gate without the permission of the Sea People. Some came and went without question: the servant girls and eunuchs who served the City of Immortals.

Looking closer, our watcher would have seen the Sea People: among the men and women carrying and working, crossing the bridge with their animals upon their errands, he would have been able to see the Selected, visible in their turquoise blue cloaks, the mark of their office. There, within the outer court, was the Great Hall, the largest building in the world in those days, with space for a thousand men to sit and eat. Here was where City met world, on the first day of the year, when the world brought the best of their young men and women to see if they would be judged fit to cross those bridges for good: to be judged beautiful, intelligent and courageous enough to be Selected to become one of the Sea People; and for a very few, the ones with skill, good friends and sufficient luck, to become one of the Immortals.

But this was not the end of the year. That would not be for months: it was not long after the Summer Solstice, and the hot, drowsy days of the Month of Darkness had come. It was not yet Harvest, but the Celebration of Midsummer’s Day was a memory.

Within the wall of the City there were other walls, concentric rings like the layers of an onion, each enclosing a smaller space higher on the hill. The outer layer, enclosed by the outer walls, included the Great Hall and also Novice dormitories, teaching halls, servants’ quarters and kitchens, simple long buildings, made of stone and thatch.

Within this part, enclosing the higher part of the hill, was another stone wall which enclosed the Court of the Veterans. This space was for those of the Sea People who had mastered the basic skills of their order, who had served their apprenticeships in the Forest, and were seeking to master Immortality. They lived here in various houses, individually or in small groups: not families, for the Sea People did not marry; but sometimes friends, bound together by bonds of shared danger in the Forest. For here lived the people who had given their lives in service of the City and the Sea People, and if they did not soon learn the Immortal Breath, their lives would be over. Here the blue cloaks wrapped around shoulders that stooped and heads that were grey or white. Within this space dominated by old age was the next wall, again incorporating the higher part of the hill: age besieged the Court of the Immortals, but there was no place for grey hairs and wrinkles within it.

The Court of the Immortals enclosed only a small space, yet the buildings were palaces of stone and plaster: great buildings, immortal architecture to reflect the immortality of their inhabitants. But there was only a handful: the Immortals who lived here could be numbered on a man’s fingers. For most Immortals accepted that precious gift as their reward for one lifetime in service to the Sea People and, when they gained Immortal Rank, they Retired and went out into the worlds, into the Forest, to live among ordinary people and keep them safe.

Within the Court of the Immortals there was another wall, though. This last wall enclosed the top of the hill, the Court of the Favourites. Here were the two-roomed cottages of the Favourites, each the exact dimensions of the others. There were a few individual buildings used by the Mentor: the House of Power, a pyramid of glazed bricks; and the House of Records, with a red tiled roof. At the summit of the hill was the Mentor’s House. The City was his creation, his great work, and he had lived there from the start of its millennial history, since he raised the Land of the Immortals from the ocean. It was fitting that the City should enfold and gather around him, for he and the symbol of his authority were the source of the safety that allowed that first, now forgotten, human civilisation to flourish. There he was in his room, behind the balcony window with the curtains that were always closed; that symbol of authority around his neck. He looked young, a small, pale man with dark blond hair. His appearance was quite ordinary, apart from his green eyes, but he was almost the oldest thing on this island. The oldest thing in the Land of the Immortals was on the table before him, yellow-white in the dark room: the eleven-centuries-old skull of a twelve year old boy.

All the rest of the Court of the Favourites was given to formal gardens: fragrant blooms and mature trees, a fountain, paths that led nowhere, trysting spots. A cypress grew by the wall and in its shade was one such secret place. It could not have been seen from the rest of the Court of the Favourites, because of the tree, and it could not have been seen from the Court of the Immortals, below, because of the wall. From the air a watcher could have seen the stone seat, just big enough for two, worn by the many lovers that had sat there as a thousand years of history had gone by. But that day, a pretty woman sat there, alone, eating her midday meal, and looking down at the life and industry that bustled in the harbour, far below her.

The woman was tall and thin with thick curly hair, the colour of honey, reaching down over her shoulder-blades. The hair contrasted with the blue of her cloak. Her tunic was also blue, silk, and woven so the iridescence of the silk reflected many shades of blue and green. Her face was pale, but shaped by ancestors from all over the planet: not something unusual for a modern observer, but in that day, a mark that said that her family were from the City for many generations. Her eyes were sometimes blue, sometimes green. That her dress showed the same shades was not an accident: but it was something that few would notice without looking at her carefully, without staring into her eyes. There were not many people whose Rank would have permitted them to safely look her in the eye, and on that day, all but one of them was within the Court of the Favourites.

This was a place of calm for her. It was a lovers’ place, she knew, but she loved it most when she could sit there and be alone, ignore the surrounding games of politics and power. But this time, she heard voices. She felt frustrated by that, felt that they were invading her quiet space. She listened for the voices, trying to decide if she should give up and come out, or see if they came to her. She concentrated on the sounds, hoping to recognise the approaching invaders of her calm.

When she heard the first, deeper voice, she smiled and turned, half rising. But then she heard the other voice and a look of irritation crossed her face as she sat down again. But, judging from the closeness of the voices, it was now too late to escape: the only exit was the way they were coming in. So, rather than be caught trying to escape them, she sat and waited.

“Grandniece,” Miotal greeted her. “Eibheara.”

The two men came out into the shade of the cypress, so much bigger than when Miotal had first sat in its shade. Eibheara reminded him of how she had been as a girl, as if she had never really grown up, as if she wasn’t really an Immortal. Her parents had called her Ceathrua, since she was their fourth daughter, born on the fourth day; but she had taught them her name almost before she could talk. When Eibheara made her mind up about something, it was made up.

She turned around, and looked straight at Aclaí.

“How are ye?” she asked. Then, to Miotal, “I didn’t know you had returned, great-uncle. What brings you back to the City and who has brought you into the Court of the Favourites?”

She was reminding him that he was not one of the Mentor’s favourites, like she was, but was only here by Aclaí’s invitation.

“Aclaí asked me,” he told her. “He said he had things he wanted to say to me. Perhaps we should leave you in peace.”

She looked at Aclaí.

“Stay,” she said. “If you don’t mind.”

As Aclaí approached, she moved over, making space for one more. He sat down, and Miotal went over to the wall and perched on that. Seeing her close to Aclaí, on the seat that was designed for two and only two, he felt a pang of jealousy.

But Aclaí was there for a reason.

Miotal asked, “What was it that you wanted to talk about, Lord Aclaí?”

“It’s Éirime,” Aclaí replied.

“You must know it is Éirime, uncle,” interrupted Eibheara, impatiently. “Everyone is talking about it. She is still a Favourite, although nobody knows why. She walked away from the City. She rejected everything we have here. She might as well have spat in the Mentor’s eye as she left.”

Miotal was only half listening: he was watching Aclaí’s face. He knew that there would be emotions behind that mask, but he did not know what. Perhaps it was good that Eibheara was here: she would draw out Aclaí’s thoughts, and tell Miotal the parts that Aclaí would not. He always felt more from Aclaí’s touch than from his face, but they weren’t touching. The seat he had hoped would hold them together as they talked was being used by Eibheara to keep them apart.

“The Mentor let her go?” Miotal asked.

“He did,” Eibheara replied. “She had been asking to go for years, but last ten-day he said she could go. She picked up her things and walked out there and then. She didn’t say goodbye to anyone. She wasn’t even at the Evening Meal.”

It was useful information, but Miotal wished Aclaí would talk and wished Eibheara would be quiet. He looked straight at Aclaí.

“How can I help?” Miotal asked, hoping the simplicity of the statement would convey what he could not convey with touch.

“When an Immortal leaves,” Aclaí said, briskly, “we should look at the things they used to do, to see if any of them are Traditions that should be kept alive.”

Miotal and Eibheara both knew that. Éirime was the first Favourite to leave the City, but not the first Immortal: and for an Immortal to choose to leave the City after staying so long was unusual. For an Immortal to leave suddenly was bound to leave matters to be resolved. The Traditions of the City came from the habits of the Immortals who lived there. But what traditions came from Éirime? Miotal tried to remember.

“The only Tradition I remember that centred on her was addressing the newly-Selected Novices at the start of the year.” As he spoke, Miotal looked quizzical. “I never understood why she did that. She never seemed to care about the Selection process, but she went and spoke to them every year.” He seemed to dismiss it as an oddity. “She’s a strange person.”

“I know what she was looking for,” Aclaí growled.

“Oh,” Miotal answered.

He seemed to understand then. He looked at Aclaí, glanced at Eibheara and looked back at Aclaí. Eibheara felt like she was an outsider, that there was some kind of unspoken understanding, some secret between Aclaí and her great-uncle, something that they would not or could not share with her. She hated that.

“I will take that responsibility,” said Aclaí. “Somebody should. It’s a good Tradition.”

“She was reassuring, Aclaí,” replied Miotal. “I can’t see you being reassuring.”

Eibheara felt him react, and it gave her a shock that he should feel something.

“I will have to learn,” Aclaí said. “It will be good practice.” He looked at Miotal, and could see that he was not convinced. He swore: a dirty phrase not unusual in the City, but it was very unusual for Aclaí to show such passion. “Look, Miotal, if you don’t understand what she was looking for, with all you know, what chance is there that anyone else does?” He breathed a moment, what Eibheara recognised as Immortal Breath, a source of calmness. “It’s a good Tradition. If she doesn’t come back just to do it, then somebody else needs to do it. And I don’t think she is going to come back, for that or anything else. I don’t think she will find what she is looking for, but she has Retired.”

He looked at Miotal, and Miotal remembered how their long day and night tracking had ended.

“She’s not coming back,” Miotal agreed.

“Well, we must assume she won’t be looking anymore,” Aclaí grumbled. “Which means someone else should look. It could be important.”

Miotal came over from the wall and placed a hand on Aclaí’s shoulder. Eibheara saw the gesture, and it reminded her of how her father would place his hand on her mother’s shoulder, when she was upset. To her it seemed oddly out of place, for a man to touch another man like that, but she knew they were close. She saw Aclaí’s head move, just a tiny fraction, towards Miotal.

After a few moments, Miotal replied, “Then you should do it, Aclaí, or you should tell someone else what she was looking for.”

“She never told anyone, either. I think she kept the secret for a good reason. I will continue her search and, if I find it, then you will know.”

Caora woke up. Her head was stuffy from drinking wine and cider, but no more than most mornings. As she breathed the Immortal Breath that was a part of her morning ritual, she felt the hangover start to clear. She remembered she was home first and then she remembered the suspicion they had felt towards her blue robe. She would have to do something about that. But first she would do something about breakfast. She got up, put clothes on, singing the Words of Freshness as she shook her hair. Then she went down to the commons.

The commons was the main room of the inn and occupied half of the building: above them the thatch was blackened by smoke and stone walls surrounded a stone floor. The shutters were open now, letting sunlight in, illuminating the trestle tables, benches and stools. A few merchants ate breakfast while their boats were prepared for the last part of their journey to the mountains, but most of the space was empty.

As Caora was drinking the last of her breakfast she had her plan sorted out. She put down the mug, then went to the middle of the room, over to the hearth stone and sat by it. They had not lit a fire yet but Beatha had swept it ready. Caora had a small knife on her Silver Cord and with a tiny tug it was in her hand. The blade and handle were both of the greenish Metal and she unfolded the blade and locked it. The handle was about the size of her finger and the blade about three quarters of that.

Holding it like a pencil, she began to scratch Words of Power into the stone, carefully: not because she found them hard to remember, although it had been a long time, but because she knew that if the knife slipped she might easily lose a fingertip. As she worked, she was aware that travellers in the commons were watching her, wondering what she was up to. Her hands trembled this early in the morning, and it would be embarrassing to bleed in front of them while she struggled to remember any Words of Healing.

By the time she was done, Ólachán and Beatha were watching too. She carved the last bit, the codicil that drew Power from the House at Ceatha. She had almost carved the codicil that drew Power from the Red World, but here on Anleacán, it was probably too far away to work. Then she reached into the wood basket and took out a branch. The Words of Power she sang were simple enough, a short little phrase invoking a Manifestation of the Great Principle of Fire, and suddenly the branch was burning. She put it on the hearth stone, and watched the smoke. It rose true and out of the hole in the roof, carried by the smoke guide she had carved on the hearth stone.

Beatha came over and spoke to her, awe in her voice.

“My lady,” she said, “what do we owe you?”

“I enjoyed playing here last night,” Caora replied, “but the smoke got in my eyes. Now it won’t. If ye’ll let me play again, then that will be my reward.”

“My lady, you can play here any time you wish. My husband says you are his kin, and anyway, playing as beautiful as yours cannot help but attract us more custom.”

When she had done all the hearthstones in Ólachán’s inn, Caora went across the river to the well. She sat by the well and carved more Words into a rounded stone the size of her two hands in a fist.

While she was carving, a girl came out to fill a pitcher. The first thing Caora saw about her was her eyes, which were the same shade of green as the Mentor’s. Her skin was pale and freckled, especially on her little upturned nose. Her hair was the colour of red gold. The girl’s body inside her woollen dress was thin and bony; she was not quite a woman, but Caora could see that she would be soon.

The girl was also shy. She seemed to want to speak, but she didn’t. Caora looked up at her.

“I won’t be long,” she said.

“I can wait, my lady,” the girl replied, in a tiny voice.

Caora was scratching the codicil for the Ceatha Power, to complete the work.

“Almost done,” she said. Then she looked up. “I’m Caora. What is your name?”

“My name is Eala, my lady,” the girl replied. “People call me Eile, though. I am a twin, and my sister is much more popular than I am.”

“There,” said Caora, “It’s done.”

Caora dropped the carved stone into the well: there was an audible plop as it landed. Then she let down the bucket to draw the water, and drank a little. It seemed the Formula had worked. She offered the bucket to Eala.

“Try it,” she said.

Eala tried it.

“It has no flavour, my lady,” she said, pulling a face. “Where has the taste gone?”

“Bad water causes sickness, Eala. The well water is clean now. Clean water has no taste. Fewer people will get sick now.”

“My father got sick. Duille the Healer said that was bad water.”

“What happened?”

“He died, my lady.” Eala looked at her, an intense green gaze that reminded Caora of the Mentor again. “Will what you’ve done to the well stop people dying?”

“Everybody dies, Eala. But it will stop some people dying before they should.”

“Why are you doing it?” she asked.

“I am the Steward for Áthaiteorann, by the Mentor’s order. It’s my duty to take care of people, to stop them getting sick.”

“We have a healer, my lady. Duille is our healer.”

“I am sure Duille will be happy to be less busy. Purifying the well and carving smoke-guides on hearths will stop many people from getting sick.”

“What is a smoke guide, my lady?”

“It’s not easy to explain. Let me show you. Show me where you live.”

Eala showed her to a one-roomed cottage, extended years ago. There was a red-haired boy there, playing outside. There was no-one else, and Caora was suspicious.

“Who else lives here?” she asked, afraid this Eala was an orphan, bringing up her little brother alone.

“Mammy and my sister are out getting firewood. I’m looking after Spideog,” Eala replied, indicating the boy.

The resigned way the boy looked back showed Caora that he didn’t appreciate being looked after by his older sister.

“That’s good,” said Caora, relieved to hear that she still had a mother.

Eala watched as Caora swept ashes from the hearthstone, got out her knife, and began carving the Words. As she worked, she hummed, and then began to sing softly to herself, the cook’s song that Eala’s mother often sang at their hearth. Eala’s first thought was surprise that a Lady of the City should know one of their own village songs, and her surprise grew as she listened. Mammy was always a little out of tune, but Lady Caora, seemingly without thinking about it, was the best singer Eala had ever heard.

It didn’t take long, as their hearthstone was soft, Caora now had steady hands, and the Words were clear in her mind. Soon she was ready, and she lit a small fire. The hearthstone in Eala’s house was not under the smoke hole, because the roof was in two parts, so the smoke rose up to the roof, then flowed neatly across and out of the hole.

Eala watched it and then she blew gently to see how that disturbed the smoke. It didn’t, of course. Then she put her hand in the smoke, and tried to waft it. Finally she blew on her hand and, as she was blowing, she put her hand into the smoke. Caora watched her experiments, seeing her intelligence and her curiosity.

Eala said, “It separates the air, doesn’t it? Can anything get the smoke out?”

Caora reached her two hands into the smoke, cupped them, and pulled them out. When she opened her hands a curl of smoke was released.

“It doesn’t have much force behind it. You couldn’t suffocate yourself with it. If you put your face up to it and blew hard, that would blow the smoke out.”

“It’s wonderful,” she said. “How does it work, my lady?”

Caora smiled, enjoying this strange young woman’s company.

“The Words on the hearthstone are a command to the Great Principle of Air. The Ceatha House provides the power and the Words tell the Principle of Air how smoke should flow here.”

“The Principle of Air, my lady?”

“There are five Principles that control what form matter should take: Earth, Water, Air, Fire, and, well, the other one doesn’t normally occur in nature.” She looked at Eala, who seemed to be following it, and not to be bored. “Think of water. What form does water take when it is cold?”

“It becomes ice, my lady.”

“And when it is hot?”

“It becomes steam.”

“Those are three forms that water takes. Ice is solid like Earth, water is liquid like … Water, and steam is gaseous, like Air. If you got it still hotter, it would change form again, and glow, like Fire.”

“And the form that doesn’t occur in nature, my lady?”

“If you heat water it turns to steam, but if you squeeze steam it turns to water. If you do both enough, it becomes something else, a fifth form of matter. Humans only encounter this fifth form with the aid of Words of Power. You can’t make a pot strong enough to contain that form of water.”

Caora watched young Eala think about these things. “Smoke becomes fire sometimes, when it comes out of hot wood. Is that the same thing?”

“It is a similar thing.”

“Is that the thing that keeps the clouds separate from the blue sky?”

“The clouds are separated by the normal rules of Air. These Words change the rules, just in a little column over the hearthstone.”

“Why does this … Great Principle of Air take any notice of your writing, my lady?”

Caora looked at Eala, surprised at the good sense of the question.

“The Words are written in … I suppose you could call it their mother tongue. They ignore the normal speech of humans, but there is a language the Universe uses. That is the Words of Power.”

“How did you learn all these things? How did you learn Words of Power, my lady?”

“The Mentor teaches these things at the City.”

“Could I learn?”

“Anyone could learn how the world works, the philosophy of nature, although I don’t think anyone is teaching it outside the City.” Eala watched Caora consider that as she said it. “But,” she added, “only the Sea People are allowed to learn Words of Power.”

“Could I be one of them?”

“Why would you want that?” asked Caora, slightly scornfully. “Why throw away..?” She hesitated. “Why throw away your life to learn a few stupid tricks?”

Eala didn’t know how to answer that, so she didn’t.

“How do we repay you, my lady?”

“You don’t have to.”

“Mammy says that all debts must be repaid.”

Eala could see that she hadn’t thought of that.

Caora pondered for a few moments, and then said, “I will be staying at the Songbird for a while. If your mother wants to repay someone, get her to repay Ólachán for a little of the hospitality he is showing me. I’m going to be a while at the Songbird, until I find somewhere to live. But only give him a little, mind: there will be others helping.”

“I will tell her, my lady.”

Caora got up, and looked down at herself. She was sooty where she had leaned on the hearthstone, her hands were black, and Eala could see smudges where she had brushed her hair from her face. Then Caora sang an odd little snatch of song, strange Words that seemed to reverberate in Eala’s head, like a language she had forgotten. Suddenly, Caora was clean. Her linen dress was white again, the marks on her face were gone, even her fingernails were clean. Only her blue cloak seemed unchanged, but it had not been affected by the dirt.

Eala watched as she carved a few more symbols into the doorway, and into the shutter, then Lady Caora got up to go.

“I have lots of other houses to visit, Eala. I want to visit the whole village. Thank you for your company, though. You are a clever, inquisitive girl and it has been fun to talk to you.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Eala replied, gravely.

Eala hoped she would be able to talk to Caora again soon. But they would not speak again for more than a year.

— 3 —

The Other Twin

It was the Month of Light. The travellers who came into Ólachán’s inn were cold after their long journeys and looking for hot food and the warmth of a fire. Caora was in her favourite corner in the inn, playing idly. She hadn’t really got to play a whole song, but she was playing with the music, rather than playing music. A mug was on the table, her harp was in her hand, and she could smell food. She was about as happy as she could be.

The place was starting to fill up, people were starting to notice her, and soon they’d be expecting her to play for them. Nobody would actually insist, although they might ask very nicely. Her blue cloak did get her some respect, of course. In this place, where travellers came by, strangers who wouldn’t know who she was, she was glad of the peace that her blue cloak brought.

She looked up from the harp; Leathar had arrived. He came over to her, uncovering his drum.

“Good evening, Lady Caora.” His words were respectful but he talked to her like a friend. “Can I get you another drink?”

“That would be kind. Thank you.”

He put down his drum near her and went. Fuiseoga came in too and came over.

“Lady Caora,” she said. “Is Leathar getting you a drink?”

“He is getting one, thank you. Sit down.”

She sat. Leathar and Fuiseoga had at first been suspicious of her blue robe but their shared love of music had helped the three of them build a friendship over the last year. Without saying anything more she took out her pipe and blew the note she knew Caora needed. Caora heard the note, and sang the Words, then picked out a chord on the harp. That was one of the few uses she had for her Words these days: tuning her harp. She laughed silently to herself, wondering what the point of it all had been.

Leathar came over with the drinks. He sat on the other side of Fuiseoga and passed the mugs over. The place became quieter as people noticed they were sitting together now. Leathar put down his mug, wiped his lip, and picked up his drum.

“The Hare in the Spring, my lady?” he suggested.

Caora looked at Fuiseoga. She seemed pleased with the suggestion and Caora smiled her agreement back at Leathar. He counted the time, and they began playing.

They were halfway through “The Grasshopper,” when a young woman burst through the door and ran through the dancers to the musicians. Caora was absorbed completely in her playing — “The Grasshopper,” was a very fast piece, and needed good fingering, especially with all the flourishes she liked to put in it, and Leathar had responded to her showing-off by doubling the beat. The dancers were flying around, the young woman stumbled on someone’s foot, and crashed into the table, upending it and the drinks on the players. Caora was shocked. Quickly she pulled her harp out of the way. She jerked her Silver Cord and her sword was in her hand. Her training, so long ago, had her wheel off the stool and spin on her knees. She felt her armour appear over her body. One hand held the harp; the other held the sword, blade horizontal, point forward, edge up, guarding her head. She felt Metal scrape stone under her knees. “Find the target, you stupid girl,” Iolar had shouted at her, in those first dreadful days when she had learned to hold a sword. “Quickly, before it kills you!” Her sword was ready, the hilt up by her ear, the blade protecting her head, the tip looking for the target.

The young woman looked up. She had never seen a sword: she had never even seen Metal. The closest equivalent in her world was gold, used for the finest jewellery and by the merchants for barter. But this was the thousand-times-more-rare Metal, used only by the Sea People, which she had only heard about but never seen. Her own knife was flint, knapped skilfully to keep the edge keen. Like all flint blades it was fragile and, since her family was poor, it was small, about the size of two of her fingers side by side.

But in Lady Caora’s hand was a knife as long as her arm, a straight blade, edge uppermost, that tapered back to a point over the last hands-length. And, looking down from the blade, Caora’s body was completely covered in the same green-tinted Metal. All the gold that the girl had ever seen would have fitted in the palm of her hand. To see enough Metal to cover someone was a sight out of an impossible dream. It was then, realising that Lady Caora had come out of the stories she heard about the legendary people of the City, seeing the great gap between Lady Caora and a village girl from Áthaiteorann, that she first believed this shining apparition could save her brother’s life.

Caora realised she had overreacted. Ólachán’s guests were staring at her in fear. Her sword-hilt and her helm both showed her Rank, for those that had the knowledge to read them, but the sword-blade and the cloak would have been enough. The only person who did not show fear was the golden-haired young woman, who struggled up from the upended furniture. Caora thought she recognised those green eyes.

“Lady Caora,” the young woman squealed, breathlessly. “Spideog has a fever and he’s having fits. Duille the Healer says he’ll die before we can get to Port Teorainn and that it’s too big a Healing for someone of your Rank, but please try anyway.”

Her fear was for her brother’s life: she was not afraid of Caora’s blue cloak.

Caora handed the harp to Leathar, and lifted the visor of her helm.

“All right, Eala, I’ll try and help your brother. You never know, I might know more of Healing than Duille thinks.”

She put the sword in the scabbard, and then reached her hand to help the young woman stand. She tried to think: what healing Arts could she remember? It was a long time ago: these days she used the Immortal Breath and that was enough for her. The Immortal Breath could cure a hangover, and that was the worst she needed these days. She hadn’t used Healing since she used to walk the Forest. When a village boy had broken his arm, the summer before, she had used the Creation Power, but it made her feel that the Mentor could see her. She would have to use Words, if she was to avoid that, and it was a long time since she had used Words for healing. On the other hand, her body remembered how to fend off an attack, even if it was a frightened child. Maybe she would remember Words.

The young woman led her out of the place, pulling on her hand.

“Please be quick, Lady Caora.”

Caora carefully curved the fingertips: the climbing-blades weren’t very long, but they were Metal like the rest of the gauntlets, and would easily have sliced the girl’s hand open to the bone. What was she thinking of, taking up her sword in the inn? She remembered the Mentor’s voice, telling her what she had been thinking — nothing at all. Her emotions ruled as they always did. How could she even be an Adept, let alone the second Oldest? She had reacted to the girl and to her fear. The girl was no threat, but her fear was a monster.

They reached the bridge. Caora took her hand from the young woman’s, stripped off her gauntlets, and lifted the helm over her head. She threw them and the scabbard-belt over the bridge, as they ran across it, and they heard the splash. She would have to get them back, but they were on her Silver Cord. Spideog’s family would be frightened enough without her marching in with her sword on her hip. They would be twice as frightened if they could read the Rank on her sword, as she suspected Duille might: and that would never do. It would be bad enough that she would be wearing armour, but there was no time to remove it, it seemed. She pulled her cloak to her. That would at least cover some of it.

“Won’t you need those, Lady Caora?”

“I can get them when I need them, Eala. They’ll be in the way. There are blades on the fingertips of the gloves.”

The girl hesitated a moment when Caora spoke her name. But then she said, “Can you save him?”

“I think so. But we’ll have to see.”

They went into the little hut. In one glance Caora took in the scene in the firelight: the red-haired boy, shivering and flushed on the bed and his red-haired mother beside him, holding his hand, fear on her face. By the fire, an older woman, grey haired, boiled a pot whose steam was filled with herbal scents. On the other side of the boy, bathing him with cold wet cloth, was a girl identical to the one by Caora’s side.

The grey-haired woman, Duille, looked around as Caora came in.

“It is a brain-fever, Lady Caora.” She turned to the other twin, bathing the boy, trying to cool his fever. “That’s enough, Eala,” she said. Then she showed Caora the rash on the child’s body. “It has gone into the blood,” Duille said. “It is beyond my art, and we cannot get him to Port Teorainn in time.”

Face to face, she would never directly question Caora’s competence. But of course, she was right. If the fever had gone into the brain and blood, it was unlikely the child would ever get well, even if she could stop the fever. He might lose limbs; he might never think or move properly. There were Words that could do it, but they were beyond the ability of who she was pretending to be. Caora sat by the boy, and Duille spoke again.

“Perhaps you have a Flyer, my lady, and can get to Port Teorainn quickly?”

Caora was not going to go and argue with Miotal, and anyway, she had come on an old, borrowed horse, now on permanent loan to Ólachán: she had no Flyer. But she liked the twins, with their eyes like the Mentor’s: so she was not going to let Eala’s little brother die. She didn’t have the Words that Miotal would have used, but she could remember more powerful Words: the Words of Restoration. It was all she could remember: probably because she had learned it most recently. She thought back, cleared her mind, and began to sing the Formula.

It was hard work, but exhilarating, as she felt the Breath-Power, shaped by her Words, surge from her fingertips and into the child. She rarely voiced Words of this power, these days. As her strange song reached the end, Spideog suddenly sat up.

“My headache’s gone, Mammy,” he said, “but I’m thirsty.” Then he looked around. “What are you doing here, Lady Caora?”

“Eala … not Eala, Geana said you were ill, but you seem to be all right now.”

He looked over at Geana and Eala, holding hands, their green eyes round. One of them nodded agreement: in the flickering light of the fire, Caora couldn’t tell them apart.

“Did you make me well?”

“I did.”

“Thank you, my lady,” he replied. He looked around. “Why is it dark?” he asked. “Have I been asleep?”

“I think you have.” She got up. She didn’t want a big demonstration of gratitude, so she began to make her excuses. “The child needs rest,” she said, “and I should leave you alone with him.”

“Thank you, Lady Caora,” said Flannbhuía, his mother. “We will not forget this. I will talk to you about this tomorrow.”

“I’m supposed to be the Steward, Flannbhuía. It’s my duty, nothing more.” She laughed, trying to make it a light matter. “I can’t spend all my time in the inn, playing music, however agreeable it is.”

“We will talk about this tomorrow,” repeated Flannbhuía, seriously.

“But now the boy needs rest.” Caora opened the door. “Duille, will you walk with me?”

“Thank you,” repeated Flannbhuía.

Duille gathered her things, and followed Caora into the night.

“What did you see?” asked Caora.

“I am not sure, my lady,” she replied. There was a great deal more awe in Duille’s voice than Caora had heard before. “I did not recognise the Formula of Words you used. I have seen Lord Miotal work before, and for something like this he would use the Purification of the Blood, my lady.”

Caora laughed again. It felt good, to use Words of Power to actually help someone.

“I would have used the Purification of the Blood if I had remembered it. It was a long time ago I last saw it used. I’m a singer, not a healer.”

“Did you use a Restoration, my lady?”

“What do you know about the Restoration? Have you seen a Restoration used before?”

“I’ve heard about it, from my aunt in Port Teorainn.”

“Miotal uses Restoration?”

“He doesn’t, my lady. Lord Aclaí was visiting, and Miotal asked him to use the Restoration on one of his servants who had fallen from the tree when picking apples. His back was broken, and he couldn’t use his legs. His sons had to carry him.”

“Then it is too much for Miotal to use?”

“My lady, I imagine it is. She described how everyone in the room had felt the Breath-power as he had spoken the Words of Restoration.”

Caora was not going to convince Duille that it wasn’t Restoration, so she changed the subject.

“I hear that you have been telling the villagers how limited my abilities are, making it plain that you consider the healing powers of a young Adept to be far less than that of a village healer of your years.”

Now Duille was frightened. “Are you going to kill me, my lady?”

“What?” For a moment Caora’s face registered disgust. “Of course I’m not. I just want you to promise me something.”

“That I won’t say these things anymore? I won’t, my lady: I can see that your powers are far more than I expected.”

“That is the opposite of what I want you to do.”

“I don’t understand, my lady.”

“I want you to carry on telling everyone in the village that you have better healing powers than a young Novice. You do, you know. You have studied one thing all your life. No Novice of the Sea People is going to know more.”

“But you are not a Novice, are you, my lady?”

“That is not what I want you to tell them, either.”

“I still don’t understand, my lady.”

“What Rank do you think I am?” Caora asked.

“You must be higher Rank than Lord Miotal, my lady, or you wouldn’t be able —” She stopped. Caora saw her face change. “You are the Lady Éirime, lady. The Shepherdess, which is why you call yourself Caora. You are Nineteenth Rank.”

“I am. But I don’t want to be. I want to be Caora, to drink ale in the inn and play music, like I used to when I was Caora’s age and younger, to have fun and, occasionally, to help out when a Steward should.”

“You were Caora’s age over a thousand years ago, my lady.”

“I am younger than that, Duille. The Mentor is barely over a thousand years.”

“You are still an Immortal, my lady.” Duille frowned. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you are not stupid and you would realise it soon enough, after tonight. Because I’d rather you went on telling the village how you are a better healer than me, rather than telling them who I am.” She stopped at the bridge, looking down at the starlight on the river. “I couldn’t bear the way everyone would treat me if they knew who I was. I left the City to get away from being Éirime.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

“When you call me my lady, there used to be a superior tone.”

“I am so sorry, my lady,” she answered.

“Try again.”

Then Duille realised what she was asking.

“I am sorry, my lady,” she said.

“Thank you, Duille.” She turned from the water and looked at her in the darkness. “You know, your healing arts might be improved by the sorts of tools and drugs a blue-robe could obtain for you. If you were to visit quietly, when nobody was watching, I might be able to help you with things.”

“Herbs, my lady? Do you keep pennyroyal?”

“I don’t keep anything,” Caora replied. She couldn’t even remember what pennyroyal did. “But if you have a little, I can make it into a lot.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Bring it around tomorrow. And remember, Duille. Remember to forget.”

“I will. My lady.”

They parted at the bridge and Caora went back to the inn. She sneaked in the back, stripped off her armour, smoothed down her linen dress, then used the Silver Cord to get back her equipment from the river. She shook the water off them, then stowed them in her wooden chest. Softly she sang her Words of Freshness, to take the stink of fear off her body, and she went down into the commons, to have another attempt at “The Grasshopper”.

Eala was out walking with her sister, Geana. It was a fine day, even though it was winter: the light had returned but the warmth hadn’t which, their mother said, is how the Month of Light got its name. They were both wrapped in sheepskin against the cold, but the brightness of the sky was reflected on the river. As they walked, it was easy to believe that the winter was over.

At home, their mother was concentrating on looking after Spideog, who had been healed by Lady Caora the previous night. Geana and Eala suspected that Spideog was perfectly fit, but was enjoying the attention. Geana was a little annoyed that, when she had been ill, there had not been as much fuss. She had got well on her own but Duille had said that Spideog would die before morning. With the relief, nobody really minded that he was the centre of his mother’s attention.

Geana had been sent to get Lady Caora, and that was what she was describing as they walked along the riverbank towards the hillside pastures.

“When I got into the inn, I fell over and tipped the table over them. I banged my head.” She lifted her golden fringe to show the bruise high on her forehead. “And I fell under the table when it tipped. When I got up, Lady Caora was wearing all her armour and waving her sword around.”

“What happened?” Eala asked.

“I think I made her jump. She was concentrating on the playing and she didn’t expect someone to spill ale on her.”

“You split ale on her?” Eala squeaked. “You spilt ale on the Steward?”

“A whole mug of it.”

“Don’t you remember how frightened Mammy was when she found out that Lady Caora had visited me? How long she spent telling us how dangerous she was, how we should be polite, and how it was safer not to talk to her?”

“Oh Eala,” Geana replied scornfully, “if I didn’t talk to the people Mammy thinks I shouldn’t talk to, I’d never have any fun. She worries far too much.”

“Geana,” she said. She stopped walking, took her sister’s hands, and faced her. “Sister, at the First Day of Spring in Port Teorainn, last year, one of the servants spilt a few drops of wine on Lord Miotal’s grandniece, the Lady Eibheara. She used Words of Power to light a fire in the servant’s entrails and he burned to death right there by the table.”

“That’s Lord Miotal and his family. Everyone knows what they are like.”

“At the Night of Light in the City three years ago, Beatha’s cousin from Ceatha, I think his name was Colm, was kissed by a girl from the City. She had a boyfriend, also a blue-robe, and there was a fight. It was in the street somewhere, not within the walls. I think the blue-robe was Sixth Rank. Certainly he was a Novice, no more. He cut Colm with the sword. Colm bled to death there in the square, over a kiss he didn’t even ask for.”

“That was three years ago. It must happen rarely if you have to think of someone’s cousin in the City, and three years ago.”

“It’s not rare, Geana. It happens all the time. The only reason we never hear of it is because, until Lady Caora came here, we never saw a blue-robe. Blue-robes don’t come to Áthaiteorann. All we get is traders, going from the sea to the mountains and back. She might seem a bit dizzy and harmless, but Lady Caora is a blue-robe and that makes her dangerous.”

“She could be dangerous, I suppose, if she’d wanted to. She had her sword and armour on, quicker than blinking. If I’d been a wild animal instead of a clumsy girl, she would have been able to kill me, just like you said. But I wasn’t. She wasn’t angry with me at all. I just surprised her, because she was engrossed in her playing.”

“I mean it. We are supposed to show respect to the blue-robes because they are dangerous people.”

Geana looked back and Eala could see that she wasn’t listening.

“Eala, sometimes it’s like I’ve got two mothers, not one. You’re supposed to be my sister, not my mother. Nothing happened. Anyway, why would Lady Caora save Spideog and then kill me?” Geana took Eala’s hand and started walking again. “You worry too much. Lady Caora is not like that. She’s just like us, but with a blue robe on.” Geana smiled and added “And she doesn’t have a mother who won’t let her go to the inn.”

“That’s not just Mammy: Beatha doesn’t like young people in her inn. We can still go to The Sun.”

“The Sun is full of old men talking about the weather and how it will affect the harvest. It’s boring.”

“Ordóg is there.”

“I’m bored of Ordóg. He’s so stupid. It’s all very well for a boy to want to kiss, he kisses very well, but he’s just so dim. I have to explain half of what I say to him, and he just stares at me and tells me how pretty I am. It’s like having a pet, not a boyfriend.”

“Geana, you should be nice.”

“Why? Do you want him?”

“Don’t be silly, Geana!” Eala answered.

“You didn’t mind on the Night of Light, when we swapped names,” Geana suggested, mischievously.

Eala blushed. It had only been a few days ago, just before Geana had come down with the sickness she had given to her brother: she had been very sick, although her life had not been in danger.

“He does know how to kiss,” Eala admitted.

“Don’t you want to do more than kiss?” teased Geana.

“I don’t know, sister,” she replied. Then she added, “but you shouldn’t say bad things about him.”

“Oh, I haven’t said anything to him. I’m just so bored of Áthaiteorann. I want someone I can really talk to.”

“You’ve got me, you’ve got Mammy. Can’t you talk to us?”

“I couldn’t talk to Mammy about Ordóg, could I?”

“Maybe you should. It might be better than having to tell her you’re pregnant. You know she only nags us because she’s worried about us.”

Geana ignored the slight.

“Even so, she hasn’t been anywhere. Neither have you. The only person from Áthaiteorann who has seen places is Lady Caora. So either I could talk to her or I could talk to the visitors who come through the Shepherdess. But Mammy won’t let us visit the Shepherdess and Lady Caora lives in there. She plays her music there, she makes friends there, and she never comes out unless something needs doing, or someone is sick. It’s not fair.” Geana waved her hands, frustrated. “When I went in yesterday, everyone was dancing. Lady Caora was playing the harp and she’s better than anyone.”

“I know. Remember what she was like playing the dances last Midwinter Night?”

As she spoke, Eala remembered: Geana had danced with Ordóg until midnight, when Mammy had insisted she went to bed. But Eala had sat and watched and listened to the musicians. She had almost not minded that she had nobody to dance with. One of their friends, Saonta, had stolen a wineskin; Saonta, Eala and their friend Eilite had hidden from their mothers and stayed up all night, like adults, listening to Caora and remembering. They had talked about boys, and how bad they were, but Eala had remembered her father.

Eala continued, “Or what about the time we sat at the riverside by the bridge, and listened to her play, last summer? She is so talented. That’s probably why she stays at the Shepherdess.”

“You mean because she’s called Caora? Or because of some old legend?”

Eala realised she had said too much. It was always like that when she tried to keep things from her sister.

“It’s more than a legend. I heard Ólachán and Beatha talking about it in the Sun, when they came down to trade wine for mead. The Shepherdess — the Lady, I mean, not the inn — is real, and if you went to the City, you could meet her. She’s a real person. She’s supposed to be Twenty-Sixth Rank and over a thousand years old. Ólachán says she taught Lady Caora to play the harp. That is how she knows our songs.”

Geana was thinking, hard. Then she said, “She couldn’t be more than a thousand years old. That’s impossible.”

“Why not?”

“Well, work it out. What is today?”

“The Fifteenth Day of Light.”

“But what’s the year?”

“It’s Eleven Twenty-One, of course.”

“In full?”

“It’s the one thousand one hundred and twenty-first year of the Sea People.” Now Eala was thinking. The twins had loved to play with numbers when they were younger, but their mother had taught them no more than basic arithmetic. “But that would still give her over a hundred years to be Selected.”

“Nobody who was Selected that long ago is still alive. Anyway, when did the worlds meet?”

Eala knew the story of the worlds meeting. It was the starting point for their history: the day the Sea People had come to their world and brought them civilisation.

“It’s Two-Fifty-Five,” she said.

“It isn’t. It’s Two-Fifty-Four. Two of two of two of two of two of two of two of two, less two. That’s how I remember it. Two-Fifty-Five was the first Selection that anyone from Anleacán could have seen. So how old would that make the Shepherdess?”

“Two-Fifty-Six is what?” Eala thought a bit more. “Oh, so it is. That makes remembering the date easy: ‘Two of two of two of two of two of two of two of two, less two’. But that would still make her…”

“Eight hundred and seventy, plus however old she was when she was Selected. So more than eight hundred and eighty, but maybe less than eight hundred and ninety. Less than nine hundred, anyway. She certainly can’t be a thousand.”

“Well, I’m sure we can have an argument about it on our nine hundredth birthday,” replied Eala, with a trace of sarcasm.

“The way we could do that would be to put on blue robes of our own,” replied Geana, encouragingly.

“Geana, you’ve lost your senses,” Eala protested. “There is no way we could be Selected.”

“Why not? Everyone says we’re pretty. Nobody in the village can do numbers like we can; nobody can understand what we talk about except Mammy. If we’re clever and pretty, maybe the Mentor would Select us.” She poked Eala, teasing her. “Anyway, if that’s what it takes to find you a boy…”

“Geana!” Eala protested. Then she argued, “Clever and pretty for Áthaiteorann, maybe, but in the City there will be many people who are better. You’ve seen how beautiful the Sea People are, when Lady Caora has made the Visions for us.” She remembered the reluctance on Lady Caora’s face and how she had not watched the images that came from the City. “Anyway, look at Lady Caora. Haven’t you seen what is in her face when she’s engrossed in her playing? Or haven’t you understood why she was ready with her sword when you spilt ale on her?” Eala looked at Geana and she worried, not that this scheme might be impossible but, that it might be possible. “Lady Caora is not like us. She’s hurt and she’s scared. All the time, she’s grieving inside, or waiting for something terrible to happen.”

Geana could see it was true. Reading people’s faces to see what was in their hearts was the twins’ secret hobby and Lady Caora’s heart was one they had spent a long time watching, if only from a distance.

“But what’s to be scared of? What if it’s just that she’s a nervous person?”

“A nervous person couldn’t perform the way she does.”

“You don’t know that, Eala. The voice she uses when she is singing fills the place but, when she is talking, she is as quiet as a mouse. She hardly raises her speaking voice above a whisper. It is like she has two voices — it is like she is two people.”

“Geana, listen to me. Being a blue-robe isn’t all about Words of Power, or living at the City and having people call you my lady. Three quarters of young people who put on a blue robe don’t live the first year. So the chance that you’d live through it is one in four. The chance that we’d both live through it is one in sixteen. Even if we were Selected, which we wouldn’t be, fifteen chances in sixteen we’d one or other be dead before the year was over.”

“But we could take care of each other,” Geana replied. “That would improve the odds. Anyway, she’s grieving inside, like Mammy was after Daddy died. We don’t have anyone to grieve over except each other and we’d take care of each other, same as we always do.”

“Her grief isn’t like Mammy’s, Geana. Her grief is like Fleánna’s.”

Geana didn’t immediately reply to that. When the twins were little girls, before they were allowed out of the village on their own, Fleánna had been caught walking along the river, much as they were doing, but later at night. Travellers in a boat had seen her and attacked her. She had come into the village, screaming and crying. It had been years ago, before Lady Caora came to the village. Nobody would tell Geana and Eala what exactly had happened to Fleánna but, although her body had healed, her mind had not. She would not go out after dark; she would not find a husband; she would not even be alone with a man, although she was in danger of becoming an old maid. Fleánna was a cautionary tale to the girls and young women of Áthaiteorann, another reason they were not allowed in the Shepherdess. The Shepherdess was full of travellers, strangers from out of Áthaiteorann, and strangers were not to be trusted. As Geana thought about it, she realised that Eala was right. Whatever had happened to Fleánna, something like that had happened to Lady Caora.

“Maybe it happened before she was Selected,” Geana suggested. “Maybe she put on a blue robe to help her not be scared. Imagine what would happen if those travellers attacked her.”

It seemed unlikely to Eala that someone who had been attacked like Fleánna had would want to go to the City and seek a blue robe. Fleánna hardly left her cottage, especially after dark. But anything was possible.

“Maybe she did,” she conceded. “But if she did, it didn’t help her, did it?”

“It did. No traveller can hurt her.”

“But she is still scared, Geana.”

“Lady Caora is less than ten years older than us. Maybe she needs more time to get used to being a blue-robe.”

Without thinking, Eala answered, “She is much older than that, I’m sure.”

And straight away, she regretted it.

“Why do you think that?” Geana asked.

“While you were gone, Duille was talking to Mammy. You know what she is like: Duille may be a good healer, but she heals with her hands, not her words. If she thinks someone is going to die, she just comes right out and says it. She told Mammy that there was no point in getting Lady Caora, unless Lady Caora had a very fast Flyer and used it straight away. She said that she knew what a low-Rank blue-robe could do and all she could do was waste time.”

“Well, she was wrong, wasn’t she?”

“Think, Geana: why was she wrong? Do you remember what her face looked like after Spideog sat up? She couldn’t believe it. But she was scared of Lady Caora then.”

“What does that mean?” asked Geana. But then she saw it.

“It means,” said Eala, a little slowly, “Lady Caora is a higher Rank than Duille thought she was. Maybe as high as Lord Miotal.”

“Of course she isn’t as high a Rank as Lord Miotal.”

“There’s no of course, Geana. All we know is that she was able to do something that Duille thought beyond her; something she thought Lord Miotal would have to do. That means she is higher Rank than Duille thought, so her Rank is somewhere between the two.”

“That doesn’t mean it has to be between the two: her Rank could be higher than Lord Miotal’s. But it won’t be.”

“It can’t be much lower. She must have the Sixteenth Rank, at least.”

“Why?”

“Because she looks so young. She has to be an Immortal.”

Geana thought that through. “So she’s a newly-Retired Immortal: less than eighty years old, probably, but still enough to make Duille frightened. But why choose a boring place like Áthaiteorann?”

“Beatha said that her family was here. She’s Ólachán’s cousin, or something.”

“Do you think that, if we ask her, she’ll take us to the Selection?”

“Not that again, Geana. If she’s a newly-Retired Sixteenth Rank, she probably wants to stay away from the City.”

“Maybe she could introduce us to the Shepherdess.”

“Please just leave that. Think of Fleánna. Do you want to end up like that? We still don’t know what made Lady Caora grieve. Until we find out what caused that, I don’t want to go to any Selection. I don’t want to be laughed at for being ugly and stupid, either.” Talking about Fleánna had made them both uneasy. “Let’s go back home. And please, Geana, stop talking about Selection.”

“Can we at least find out about it?”

Eala knew that there would be no peace until they did.

“We can find out about it. But let’s talk about something else.”

When they got home, Spideog was outside with his friends. He had got bored of being the invalid and was playing a noisy game with sticks for swords, pretending they were blue-robe warriors. It seemed Caora’s overreaction at the inn last night had been talked about and the children were inspired. Flannbhuía was standing in the doorway, watching him, overjoyed that he was alive, but remembering how quickly he had fallen sick.

“Hello, Mammy,” said Geana. “Can we talk?”

“Of course we can,” Flannbhuía replied.

Eala could see nervousness start to appear in her face, but also relief. She was worried, probably about Ordóg. Eala wasn’t the only one who had been waiting for Geana to announce she was pregnant, she guessed. Flannbhuía stepped back out of the doorway, making space for her daughters to enter. They went in.

They sat down around the fire. Eala saw the smoke rising, then sliding along under the roof. For a moment she remembered Lady Caora sitting by the hearth, the day after she had arrived. Geana started the conversation, of course.

“Mammy, do you think we could ask Lady Caora to take us to Selection?”

Eala watched her mother’s face. Her first emotion was disbelief, but a moment later, she could see there were other expressions there. She could see disapproval, but she could also see pride, and something more calculating.

“Perhaps when ye’re older,” she said.

“How old do you think Lady Caora is? If she is an Adept now, how old was she when she was Selected?”

Eala realised that Geana knew she must be an Immortal and was pretending to her mother that she wasn’t, to make it seem that Caora had been little more than a girl when Selected. It was like Geana to do that and like their mother to see through it.

“I doubt she is as young as she looks, Geancacha,” replied Flannbhuía. “Ye saw how Duille was surprised at her abilities.”

Eala was irritated by her sister’s attempt to deceive her mother.

“Mammy,” Eala said, “we know she is older. She must be an Immortal: she looks too young for the Rank she must have, so she must be Immortal. She’s probably the same age as Grandfather.”

Flannbhuía sighed and thought a moment. “Look, girls, I’m going to tell ye a secret and ye must not ever tell anyone else. I know ye’re not gossips, except to each other, but I still need ye to promise ye will keep this secret.”

“I will, Mammy,” said Geana, straight away.

Eala didn’t like being told to keep secrets, when she didn’t know what secret she was keeping. But she trusted her mother.

“I will,” she said.

Flannbhuía began, “Do ye know who the Shepherdess is?”

“Who, Mammy, not what?” asked Geana. “You mean the woman from Áthaiteorann who became a blue-robe, nine hundred years ago?”

“That woman, Geancacha. The Lady Éirime. She is a real person, a blue-robe of Nineteenth Rank. She’s the second-oldest Adept: she’s barely younger than Lord Aclaí. She is nearly as old as the Mentor, and has been one of his Favourites for years.”

Eala added, “We think Lady Caora is Lady Éirime’s Favourite. We think she taught Lady Caora the harp and our village dances. At Sneachta’s wedding, she played almost all of them. The only one she didn’t play was the Song of the Bride.”

“You don’t know she wasn’t taught it, Eala,” objected Geana. “She just slipped away and left Fuiseoga to play for that. Some people were joking she had too much ale. I heard them whispering.”

Eala remembered it. Caora had not slipped away; she had fled. She knew the song, but she couldn’t bear to play it, or even to hear it. Eala had wanted to go after her, to comfort her, even if it meant missing the Song of the Bride, but she hadn’t dared be so familiar with a blue-robe, not after her mother’s warnings.

“That’s a good guess, Eala,” said Flannbhuía, ignoring Geana’s interruption. “But it’s not right. You know that Lady Éirime went to the City nearly nine hundred years ago, and you’ve been told that she never returned. But that last bit is not true, not anymore. Lady Caora is not Lady Éirime’s Favourite. Lady Caora is Lady Éirime herself.”

Eala reflected that it wasn’t often that Geana really didn’t know what to say. So she got to speak instead.

“How do you know, Mammy?”

“Beatha told me, months ago. Seeing Duille’s face yesterday just confirmed what I already knew. I guess nobody told Duille. Duille wasn’t born in the village, and you wouldn’t want to tell a secret like that to an outsider. Ólachán recognised her when she first arrived. She thought we’d forgotten her: as if Áthaiteorann would forget the Shepherdess!”

“But Ólachán says he is related to Lady Caora, that they are kin,” objected Geana.

“They are,” Flannbhuía agreed. “They are descended from her older brother. Ólachán is her great, great — I don’t know how many greats you get in nine centuries — great grandnephew. He’s always known it and that is why his inn is called the Shepherdess.” She seemed to be musing. “Funny that she should walk in there, of all places, when she first arrived.”

It didn’t seem strange to Eala. “Ólachán’s family have always lived north of the river. She was trying to go home. It was probably the closest building to her home.”

“Eala, I guess you are right. That seems even stranger, like someone from an old story had come to life and —” Flannbhuía stopped. Someone was at the threshold. She got up to go to find out who it was.

“Remember Fleánna,” whispered Eala to Geana. “Do you still think she’s getting used to..?” But her mother was showing the guest in.

It was Lady Caora. Lady Éirime, just a few years younger than Lord Aclaí. The Mentor might as well have walked in. They stood up.

“You said you wanted to talk to me today, Flannbhuía. If you are not too busy.”

“We are not too busy, my lady. Will you have ale with us?”

“That would be kind.”

Caora sat down near the fire and pulled back the hood of her cloak. Sitting like that, she really looked, to someone who didn’t know better, as if she was only a couple of years older than Geana and Eala.

While Flannbhuía busied herself finding mugs and drawing ale, Geana spoke.

“I promise I will not tip it on you, Lady Caora. I am sorry I did so yesterday.”

Over Caora’s shoulder, Eala could see her mother’s horrified face, her head turned, and the mug dangling perilously in her fingers, forgotten. She had heard about Eibheara and the servant, it seemed. Knowing Caora’s age and Rank just made it worse. But Lady Caora reached over and touched Geana’s arm, a gesture of reassurance.

“That’s fine, Geana,” she smiled. “Neither of us was paying attention and you had more excuse than me. I am sorry if I frightened you with the sword.”

“You didn’t frighten me, my lady. I was under the table: I didn’t see you draw it.”

“That is good. I frightened a lot of Ólachán’s guests: the inn is almost empty now.” She laughed “I frightened myself most, I think. I really wasn’t paying attention at all.”

“It seems so strange, that anything should frighten an Adept of the City, my lady.”

“When I was your age, shortly after I was Selected, I had to go into the Forest, to keep monsters away from people. That is what the Sea People are mostly for: keeping monsters away from people. I went with Adepts from the years above which helped keep me safe. It also meant that we went deeper into the Forest than a newly-Selected Novice normally would. I’m not a very good Adept — I don’t have much courage — but the standard was very low in my Selection, and so the Mentor was left with me. Sometimes when something makes me jump, I think back to the Forest.” She looked up: Flannbhuía was offering her a mug of ale. “Thank you,” she said. “When I was first at the City, being frightened was the thing I felt more than anything else. Frightened, and lonely. Sometimes that comes back. As I said, I’m not a very good Adept.”

Now it was Eala and Flannbhuía’s turn not to know what to say: if the Lady Éirime was not a very good Adept, who was? But Geana felt no such concern.

“If you are not a good Adept, my lady, what would that say about the rest of us? You were Selected: only the cleverest and prettiest are Selected. How stupid and ugly must we seem to you?”

“You are certainly clever and pretty enough to seek Selection, if that was really what you wanted. I think you are courageous enough, from what I saw yesterday. You two may be more clever and pretty than I am but, much more, you have courage. Courage is what I never had, Geana. That is why I am no good as an Adept.” She looked at Geana, and saw her enthusiasm. “But why would you want to? What boy or girl would really want to give up their life for that?”

“You did, my lady.”

“When I left home and went to the City, I had no idea what was going to happen to me. I hadn’t been told I was going for Selection — I didn’t even know what Selection was. They told my parents they would return me that evening. I spent every day afterwards wishing I hadn’t ever gone. The first day I could, I came home.”

“When was that, my lady?”

“Geana, you know when I came home. It was the last summer.”

“Oh,” said Geana.

Eala could see Geana thinking about the City being a prison; about being trapped there for nine hundred years, while everyone you knew aged and died. Maybe she was remembering what Eala had said about Caora and Fleánna.

“We are in your debt,” Flannbhuía said to Caora. “As you know, my lady, I am a widow. But widows have pride: it is often the greater part of what we have. How can I pay my debt to you?”

“Another mug of your ale, perhaps?” suggested Caora.

“You are mocking us, my lady,” Flannbhuía replied.

But she reached for the mug. Caora did not let go. She put her hand on Flannbhuía’s hand.

“I am sorry, Flannbhuía, I don’t mean to mock you. I find this very hard. Everyone says ‘how can we repay you?’, and they mean it, I know they do. But I don’t want to be repaid, I just want to be like everyone else. When I left Áthaiteorann, I was a girl, younger than these two, and that is what I remember. I don’t feel like some Lady of the Sea People that everyone should fear. I want people to like me. I don’t want them to be in my debt.”

Astonishingly, Eala could see her mother’s face set. She had just told Eala that this woman was barely below Lord Aclaí in Rank. Everyone knew that when an Immortal visited villages and was slighted, all that was left was smoking ruins. And here was the second Oldest of the Immortals sitting before their hearth. How could she dare to be stubborn to her face? But Eala could see it coming. She thought please, Mammy, let it go, let it go and then, before her mother could speak, she found herself speaking.

“Lady Caora, everyone in the village pays their debts to each other. Even girls as young as us. Would you permit me to repay? Spideog is my brother. I have much more time, though, because I don’t have a family to take care of. Mammy works hard taking care of us. I will work hard, too, at whatever you want me to do.”

All three were looking at her. It was Geana who responded first, though.

“It is true, Lady Caora, we will both pay the family’s debt, if you will permit us.”

Caora looked up. “Will that satisfy your pride, Widow Flannbhuía?”

“It will, my lady.”

Eala could see relief on her mother’s face. She realised that she didn’t know her mother as well as she thought she did. Flannbhuía looked down at the table, at Caora’s hand on her own.

“Would you like that ale, my lady?”

“Thank you.”

Caora took her hand away and everything was normal again, or as normal as it could be with a blue-robe sitting by the hearth.

Flannbhuía brought the mug back.

“Do you know what you will do with them, my lady?”

“I don’t know now, but I will think of something. I rather think the exertion will be between the ears, if you don’t mind. I think I would like to see if we can get some knowledge into those pretty heads.”

Eala realised and, at the same moment, saw Geana realise: she meant for them to be apprentices. That meant they might learn about the Sea People without going to the City. Eala thought that was wonderful. But it was her mother who answered.

“It is not up to me to mind, my lady.”

“I promise I will take care of them.” She put down the mug and got up. “This really is good ale, Widow Flannbhuía. I have never tasted better and I have tasted a lot of ale. Thank you for your hospitality.” She turned to Eala and Geana. “You two I will see tomorrow morning, but not too early.”

With that she stepped to the doorway, lifted the hood of her cloak, and was gone. Flannbhuía sat down heavily on the bed. Geana went over, sat by her, and put an arm on her mother’s shoulders. Flannbhuía looked at Eala.

“She is nearly a thousand years old and she doesn’t know what ye both know: that debts should be paid.”

“We don’t know how old she was when she was Selected, Mammy. She said she was younger than us. She might have been too young to really know that.”

“Why do you always have to go trying to be understanding? Your heart is too soft and one day it will get you into trouble.”

“But it could be true, Mammy.”

“It could well be true. But it is certainly true that your soft heart will get you into trouble.”

— 4 —

Apprentice

Geana was the first of them to go into the Shepherdess. She had been in before, at least. Both girls knew that they were not supposed to be there, normally, but both knew that this time they were instructed to by the Steward. That was the perfect, unassailable excuse.

They had packed a bag each. Flannbhuía had concluded, as they had, that they were meant to be apprentices. That meant that they would be expected to live with their teacher, learning from her. They did not know it was true, and if it was not they would go home again in the evening, but both of the twins hoped it would be. The only real education in their world came from the City, and they both craved education.

The commons were much quieter than they had been the night before last, when Geana had burst in. Trestle tables were out, and a few travellers sat around, eating breakfast and talking amongst themselves. There was a fire on the hearthstone, and Beatha was there, in a woollen dress and leather apron, distributing hot smoked pork to her guests. She looked over at them as they came in.

“What do ye girls want?” she challenged, suspiciously.

“Lady Caora asked us to meet her here,” Geana replied. It was true and it was beyond argument. Geana’s tone was a tiny bit triumphant.

“Well, sit over there then and be quiet. She’s not awake yet.”

They obediently went over to the table she had indicated. Eala was nervous and she could see that Geana was nervous too, although they reacted to it in different ways. Eala had never been in the Shepherdess. For her it was a forbidden place and looking around the room, at the stones of the floor, the plaster walls, the smoke-blackened beams, at the rough tables, she felt a tiny bit disappointed that it should be so ordinary. The smell of the place was the same as the Sun: stale drink, cooking food, and smoke. Geana could see what she was thinking, as she looked around.

“This place is much livelier in the evening,” Geana said, as if being there for less than a hundred breaths had made her an authority. But Eala did not want to argue. “Come on, Eala,” said Geana. “Look where we’ve got to. Apprentices to the second-Oldest of the Sea People. We’ll get our blue robes yet.”

“We don’t know that we will be apprentices,” said Eala. “I never heard of a blue-robe taking an apprentice.” She could see that Geana knew she was right. “Besides,” she added, “I still remember Fleánna.”

“You worry too much,” replied Geana. “I think that the problem is how old she is.”

“How can it be a problem with age? Do people get more scared as they get older?”

“Well, it’s not her age, it’s that she was born a long time ago. If she was Selected only two or three centuries after the Sea People first started, then she will have gone to the City when it was still filled with savagery. She won’t have seen civilisation, like there is today.”

“You have no way to know that,” replied Eala.

“Shall we ask..?” Geana suggested, and then noticed Eala was staring over her shoulder.

She turned around. Lady Caora had arrived.

Caora stood at the door to the commons. She looked half asleep and was wrapped in her cloak as if it were a blanket. Beatha got up as soon as she saw her, went to the taps and drew a mug of something. Caora came over to them. “Good morning, my lady,” Geana said to her.

She sat down next to Eala and leaned forward, putting her face in her hands, massaging around her temples and eye-sockets. Eala thought she could smell drink. Beatha came over, the mug in her hand. Caora looked up as she took it. “Thank you, Beatha,” she said.

“It is nothing, my lady. Are these girls bothering you?” she asked.

“I asked for them to come here,” she replied, verifying Geana’s story. “I also asked them not to come too early.”

Eala could see from her expression that Beatha didn’t think it was early: people who had animals would certainly have been up some time and Beatha had to have breakfast ready for her guests. But Beatha didn’t contradict Lady Caora, whatever she thought.

“Do you want breakfast, my lady?” she asked.

“Maybe in a while,” Caora replied. She drank a good part of the contents of the mug and then put it down. Beatha hurried away. Then Caora turned to Eala and seemed about to say something. Then she seemed to think better of it.

Instead she asked, “Do you sing? And which one are you? Are you Eala?”

“I am Eala, my lady,” she replied. “Everybody sings, though nobody sings as well as you sing.”

Eala was suddenly afraid that Caora might want them as apprentice musicians, and she knew that she didn’t have the talent to do that.

“Don’t worry, Eala,” she said. “I’m not expecting ye to become entertainers. But I have a song I’d like ye to learn.”

“All right,” said Geana.

Caora’s harp was in her hands. She hadn’t reached for it, and it had been nowhere in sight, but suddenly it was there, on the table. Geana’s eyes were wide: it was real magic. Eala saw that Caora didn’t look at them, to see how it affected them. To her, being able to have things in her hand when she needed them was just a normal thing. She sang Words, language that Eala didn’t recognise but which she felt she should know: a phrase that echoed in their heads, like a forgotten language from forgotten dreams: and Eala remembered how Caora had made herself clean, last summer in their mother’s cottage.

Then Caora began to play.

The song was simple like a children’s rhyme. It sang of a river, an ocean and a bird; a seed in the sunshine; and many other things. It was simply a recitation of odd objects, joined together by rhyme and melody. However, they listened as she sang it and enjoyed her voice. When she stopped playing, Eala noticed that the commons were silent. The travellers had all stopped talking to listen to her.

She looked over the table at Geana.

“Do you understand my song?” she asked.

Geana looked puzzled, thinking it must be some kind of riddle. Eala could see her worrying it in her mind and, guessing that if Geana gave up it would be her turn, she worried over it too.

Looking for more time, Geana asked, “Can we hear it again, my lady?”

Caora played and sang again. Geana still did not understand and neither did Eala, but part-way through the song, she noticed that one of the travellers thought he did. The traveller seemed to find it amusing. He had a broad smile, like someone who knew a secret.

When she was done, Caora asked Geana, “Well, can you tell me?”

“I can’t, my lady,” admitted Geana.

Eala was looking at the grinning traveller. She could see him looking and wondered what it was about him that made him able to understand it. He was an old man, well wrapped in furs and leather against the cold of the Month of Light. He had a heavy leather pack, with rolls of something in it. His gloves had no fingertips and his bare fingers were stained. He was a …

“Is it to do with writing, my lady?” asked Eala.

“It is. How do you know?”

“Over there is a traveller who understands it, my lady. I think he is a scribe.”

Caora looked over at the direction she was looking. The traveller looked away.

“Are you a scribe?” she called over to him.

He looked up, worried that she might be addressing him.

“I am, my lady.”

“Can you explain my song to these two girls?” she asked.

“I can, my lady. The things in the song are the pictures that scribes use for writing. The river begins with Aw, at least in the accent of the City; the ocean with Ah; the bird with Ay; the seed with Sh; the sunlight with S; and so on. If you learn the song, you know how to write.” He watched her, to make sure she approved of what he was saying. “I never heard it before,” he added. “If my teachers had known it, I think it would have saved me from some beatings, my lady.”

Caora laughed. “When I learned to write, I was rather older than that.”

“My lady, don’t all Novices learn to read and write?”

“They do now…” she answered and stopped.

Hearing it, the girls remembered that she was pretending to be far younger than she actually was. But was she really older than writing?

The scribe continued, “Do they teach it at the City of the Sea People, my lady?”

“I made it up myself,” she replied. “It was the only way I could think of to remember.”

“Would you teach it to me?” he asked. “I have apprentices at home. That is, if it is not something that belongs to the Sea People, of course.”

“It does not belong to the Sea People, scribe. I don’t believe anyone else knows it but me. Come over here and I will teach you as I teach the girls. You shouldn’t take long, as you already know the words.”

He came over and pulled up a stool. Eala could see how nervous he was about being so close to a blue-robe, but the song fascinated him. He learned it in two repetitions and then could sing it back. Then he had to go: his boat was packing up, ready to take him upriver to the mountain villages. But he got out a sheet of leather, in payment, and carefully copied out the pictures named in the song. He gave this leather and some spare sheets, along with some ink, to Caora.

It took Eala and Geana more attempts to learn the song. But they had their materials and their lessons began.

Geana had promised Eala that she would not keep asking Caora about Selection. She kept her promise for more than a ten-day, which was longer than Eala had expected.

During that ten-day they had settled into their new life. Since they were apprentices, albeit apprentices in a very strange profession, they moved into Caora’s home. All that meant is that Ólachán found another pallet for them to sleep on and put it in the room by the hearthstone. They found it odd to be away from their mother and brother, but they had each other and they knew that they were not eating at their mother’s table, which helped her to make ends meet.

Caora was a strange person to live with. The twins knew that she sang to entertain people, but what they quickly learned was that she sang all the time. Even when she was busy with something else, she would be humming, whistling, or tapping a beat. They had realised that some people must find it intensely annoying, although of course nobody would dare complain about her behaviour, because of her blue cloak. Watching the people around Caora, they easily identified the few who were irritated by it. They tended to avoid her.

As soon as they had moved into her room, they realised another thing about her: she hardly ever seemed to sleep. She would fiddle with her harp, sudden bursts of beautiful melody in between her doodling, and they would doze off to the music. When they woke up, she would be still doodling, or doing some sort of odd breathing exercise, or she’d be out walking. They realised eventually that she did sleep, but only for a couple of hours a night. Being young, they needed to sleep for nine or ten hours a night and rarely noticed that Caora had slept. The only time they saw her fall asleep was when she had been drinking especially heavily.

Then the girls would put her to bed and speak in whispers, as their mistress snored behind her curtain, until they fell asleep too.

Eala was woken up by Geana turning over. Sunlight was shining through the shutters and Caora was sitting on her bed, fiddling with her harp. Geana sat up, her golden hair a wild mess. Eala looked over and fumbled around to find the comb: her own hair would be the same. Outside, the birds were singing and she could hear them running on the roof, fighting.

“Girls, do ye know the date today?” asked Caora.

Geana answered, as she normally did.

“It’s the First Day of Planting, my lady.”

“What happens on the First Day of Planting?” asked Caora.

“It’s not a Celebration Day: the Celebration Day in Planting is the Third ten-day, so in twenty days time. The time between now and the Day of Planting is spent planting, my lady.” Eala listened to Geana’s jumbled explanation, thinking how obvious it was and trying not to laugh. Geana was not fully awake.

Caora asked, “Would yere mother let me release ye both to help her?”

Eala knew Geana would prefer not to be involved, since planting was hard, physical work, but Eala knew that their mother needed them. She spoke first, before Geana could accept the excuse.

“I don’t think she’d let you release us, my lady, but if you gave us a few days off, we could lend a hand. She could put our help to good use.”

“All right then, ye two. After breakfast ye should go to yere mother and come back in time for the evening meal.”

“Are you sure you don’t need us, Lady Caora?” Geana asked. “After the Day of Planting there is only a ten-day of winter left and then we are into the Lost Days. You will be called on to celebrate a lot, all the way up to the First Day of Spring. And anyway, my lady, your nativity is the First Lost Day of Winter. You should celebrate that.”

Caora was staring at Geana.

“How do you know my nativity, Geana? What makes you think I was born on the First Lost Day of Winter?”

Eala spoke quickly, to try and repair the damage.

“I think it’s my fault, my lady. I’ve confused her. I told her that your Sponsor’s nativity was the First Lost Day of Winter and I think she’s misunderstood.”

She could see Caora think about it a moment, and look somewhat relieved.

“How do you know my Sponsor’s nativity?” she asked Eala, more mildly.

“Everyone knows, my lady. The Lady Éirime was born in this village, this side of the river. That is how this house got its name. Everyone remembers her. The whole village is proud of her. If nobody tells you, it’s only because they are afraid to talk to a blue-robe about someone so important. They’re afraid of being too familiar, my lady: of saying the wrong thing.”

Caora shrugged. “Ólachán mentioned it when I first arrived. If he named his inn for her, he would have remembered her. I didn’t know everyone knew her nativity. Do people care that much about nativities in Áthaiteorann?”

“We do,” replied Geana. “If you have friends or loved ones, you remember their nativities. We would like to remember yours, my lady,” she looked over at Eala, who was afraid that Geana was jumping back into the trap. “We would, wouldn’t we, Eala?”

Caora saved Eala the trouble of replying. “All right,” she said, “when is your nativity, Geana?”

“The Seventeenth Day of Midsummer, my lady. Duille said I was born in the Rising of the Cat, she was born in the Rising of the Bride.” Geana added, thoughtfully “Whatever that means, my lady.” It was a question, and a hint.

“It means you were both born in the morning, after dawn but before midday, and that you were born first.” Then Eala saw Caora look to her a moment, as if she was going to ask her nativity, then think better of it. Instead she asked, “Do you mind sharing your nativity?”

“I’m used to it,” Eala said. “I’ve been sharing it for all my life.”

“Well,” said Caora, “so am I.”

Eala watched her, watching for the little hints that gave away that she was lying. Lady Caora was Eala’s mentor: she wanted to learn how Caora’s feelings appeared on her face and in her movements.

“I share my birthday with my Sponsor,” said Caora.

Well, Eala thought, that was a clever lie.

“So Geana was right?” she said. “You were born on the First Lost Day?”

“I was,” replied Caora, “and so was Lady Éirime.”

Eala, still watching carefully, was astonished to see something in her face. Caora still didn’t believe either answer, even though Eala knew it was true. Eala also saw something in her face, some reflection of that same grief. Why would she be hurt by remembering her nativity? Eala was concerned they were going into an area of Caora’s life that might carry too much hurt.

“Would it be too familiar for us to help you celebrate your nativity, my lady?”

“It would not, but it is too much of a coincidence that I share my nativity with my Sponsor. I would prefer that ye did not tell other people.”

Eala understood that, although she thought Caora would be surprised if she knew how many people knew. But they agreed that they would not tell.

Then Caora turned it into a mathematics problem, perhaps knowing it would distract them.

“How many people do you need to get together to make it more likely than not that two of them share a birthday?”

Eala thought about that. It was hard. She guessed they needed a number that made itself into the number of days in a year. Well, twenty twenties were four hundred, but there were only three hundred and sixty days in a year. Eighteen was six threes, six sixes were thirty-six, and three threes were nine, and nine thirty-sixes were three hundred and thirty six, so eighteen was too small —

Geana spoke, interrupting her train of thought.

“Nineteen, my lady.”

“Not quite, Geana,” said Caora. “It’s a few more than that: the number is twenty-three. I know what you’ve done: you’ve looked for a number that squares to three hundred and sixty. But you’ve forgotten that there are two people sharing the nativity. One person can’t share a nativity, so there have to be at least two people for any chance at all. Then you add each person in turn and work out how much extra probability you get.”

She began to explain the mathematics of probability and of permutations and combinations and the twins were soon engrossed.

Eala and Geana were walking to the well. Geana carried the bucket, Eala walked beside her. Geana had asked Caora why things floated, and in response they had been sent to get water.

“It’s too hot for fetching water,” Geana said.

She was right: it was a hot day, late in the Month of Life. The sky was a clear abyss of blue: at the horizon a pale blue, at the zenith a darker colour. A few white clouds wandered aimlessly, as if lost in all that space. The trees were still and the heat seemed to make everything lazy, even the bees.

“It will be hotter coming back,” Eala warned. “The bucket is heavy when it’s full.”

“I don’t know why Lady Caora doesn’t just explain things. She expects us to figure it out for ourselves.”

“It’s a better way to learn, sister. And we don’t just learn the answer to the question, we learn how to answer other questions.”

“Do you think that’s what they do at the City? Fifty Novices all filling buckets?”

“I don’t know. I doubt Lady Caora knows. She hasn’t been a Novice for more than eight hundred years. She doesn’t want to think about the City, anyway.”

“You don’t know that. She’s upset by her memories, but…”

“Geana, sister, she’s not just upset. She’s paralysed by her memories. She drinks all the time, from the moment she wakes and late into the night. I’ve heard Beatha talk about how much she drinks. She says that Lady Caora should be dead, that it is only because she is Immortal that she is still alive.”

“I know. But she doesn’t forget even when she drinks. You can see it in her face. It’s only when she’s singing or playing that she really forgets.”

“And she hardly ever stops singing and playing, either,” Geana added. “But you still don’t know that her fear comes from the City.”

“What about the stories we hear of the others? Lord Aclaí, Lord Miotal, Lady Eibheara? Why do you think people are scared of them? I bet they are as hurt as Lady Caora, they just show it in cruelty instead of song.”

“Like when we talked to the bullies?”

“Like that. They hurt people to forget that they were hurt themselves.”

“But Eala, sister, that doesn’t prove that the City is a bad place. Lord Aclaí is Oldest; but those others are nearly as old. Back then the City was small and the Forest was huge. People lived in caves, with no Words of Power to help them. If someone wanted to kill you, nobody stopped them. And the Forest was everywhere with monsters attacking all the time. Anybody born then would grow up scared.”

“Lady Caora says that when she was a girl, Anleacán wasn’t like that. So she didn’t grow up in savagery.”

“But she also said that she had to go deep into the Forest. That she was the only one who survived from her year.”

They had arrived by the well, and Geana put the bucket down and began to draw water with the pitcher into the bucket.

“But Lady Caora never says the City is a good place.”

“She never says—”

“Eala?”

They both looked up. A girl of about their own age was approaching, being pulled by a big, hairy dog, one of Reo’s dogs. They both recognised her, Geana with embarrassment. Eilite was a little blonde, whose brown eyes made her stand out among the fair people of Áthaiteorann. She loved dogs, but Reo’s dogs were huge, and Eala could see she was not in control. This dog was hot and thirsty and as soon as she saw the dog coming over, Geana let down the pitcher to refill the trough.

Eilite saw Geana pouring out the water and so did the dog.

“Slowly, Arracht, slowly,” Eilite protested, but the dog ignored her.

It put its head into the stone trough and began to lap noisily. Eilite looped the lead over the rail and sat down heavily. She was breathing hard from keeping up with the dog.

Geana idly scratched Arracht behind his ears. One ear moved, and his tail wagged, but he was not going to be distracted from the water.

“You’re a fine boy, aren’t you?” Geana told him.

Geana didn’t talk to Eilite: she found it too uncomfortable and so she would leave that to Eala.

Eala looked at Eilite. “That’s one of Reo’s dogs? How does he get them to be so huge?”

“He breeds the best dogs in Anleacán. He thinks he can make one big enough to hunt a wolf.” Eala could hear the admiration in her voice. “He has the Gift, Eala,” Eilite added.

“Well, if I don’t see you with Reo, it’s with Reo’s dogs. Are ye both getting serious?” she asked.

She was delighted to see Eilite smile. After the business with Ordóg, it had been a while since she had smiled. Eala remembered Eilite with Saonta and with her sister, back before things had gone wrong.

“That is something I wanted to ask you about,” she replied.

Eala could see she had news.

“Well?” she asked.

“He’s asked me to marry him.”

“That’s great,” Eala answered. She could see relief on Geana’s face too, as she felt a little freed from her guilty conscience. “I hope you said you would.”

“Of course I did.”

“Well, congratulations to ye both.”

Eala got up and hugged her. Geana got up, came to within an arm’s length, and stopped there.

“May ye have many grandchildren and many years and love one another for all of them,” she said. It was a formal well-wishing, one Eilite and Reo would be hearing a lot as their news got out. Seeing Eilite’s suspicion, Geana added: “I really mean it.”

Eilite seemed to understand at last.

“Thank you, Geana,” she replied. Then she added, “I hope we can be friends again.”

“I would like that,” Geana replied, relieved.

Eilite took her hand. Geana knew people well enough to know that wasn’t the end of it, but she knew also it could be a new beginning.

Eala asked, “How many people know?”

“My parents know. Reo’s father knows. I don’t know if he’s told anyone. I was telling ye because I was going to ask ye a favour.”

“Whatever you want,” Geana said.

Eala would not have promised so much, but if Geana and Eilite were going to be reconciled, then there was a time for Eala to mind her own business.

“I wondered if you would ask Lady Caora to play for us.”

“Of course,” replied Geana. “When is it?”

“We were thinking of the Midsummer Celebration,” replied Eilite. “Weddings are best on a celebration and it’ll help Reo remember the date.”

“It might help, anyway,” Eala answered. “Reo can be absent-minded.”

“We can ask her,” said Geana.

Eala was concerned about one thing, which seemed to her more important than minding her own business.

“What did you want to do about the Song of the Bride?” she asked.

Geana and Eilite both looked at her, both surprised.

“I think I was expecting to sing it,” replied Eilite, not understanding.

Eala could see from Geana’s face that she understood very well. Eala thought how to explain. She didn’t want to intrude on Caora’s privacy too much, but she remembered how Sneachta’s wedding had hurt Caora. Then she had an idea.

“Have you heard it said: ‘The Sea People do not marry’?”

“I’ve heard it. Why?”

“I don’t think you should ask Lady Caora to play the Song of the Bride.”

“Oh,” said Eilite.

Eala could see her take this in. Eilite’s problems with Geana had been about marriage. Eilite had always wanted to be married. Last year she had thought she was about to be married to Ordóg, before it had all gone wrong. She was trying to imagine what it would be like to be forbidden from marriage and Eala could see that she didn’t like it.

Then Eilite asked, “Is that what happened at Sneachta’s wedding?”

“I don’t know,” Eala replied, thinking that she couldn’t be certain, even if she could make a very good guess.

“It’s not something I’d have thought of before,” Eilite mused. “The Sea People seem to live such wonderful lives, but it can’t be so wonderful to live hundreds of years and never get a husband.” She spoke more quietly, aware that what she was saying was disrespectful, maybe even dangerously so. “I think I pity her, poor thing. Does it hurt her very much?”

“I think she tries not to think about it,” replied Eala.

“So she won’t want to play that, will she? Will she be all right to play for a wedding at all?”

“I think she will. She likes to help, you know that. And she does love to play.”

“But not the Song of the Bride,” Eilite continued. “Well, I’m a better singer than Sneachta. I think it always sounds better if it is not accompanied, if the girl can stay in tune. I’m not Lady Caora, but I can manage to sing one song without her.”

“Then we’ll ask her for you,” said Geana.

“Thank you,” Eilite replied.

“Is it still a secret?” asked Eala.

“Until we have an answer, it would be better,” she replied. “People will want to know when.”

“Of course,” said Geana. “I’ll get you an answer as quickly as I can.”

Eala and Geana went back to the Shepherdess with the water. But when Caora saw them return, she wanted to hear their news.

“What happened?” she asked.

“We met Eilite,” replied Geana.

“How is she?” asked Caora, not knowing anything about the problems between them.

“She is happy.”

“That’s good. She’s not been so happy over winter, has she? Sometimes the darkness can make people unhappy.”

“It’s more than summer that’s cheered her up. She’s going to marry Reo.”

“That’s nice,” replied Caora. “Wasn’t she going to marry some other boy, last year?”

“I don’t think he loved her,” Eala answered. “He went off with another girl.”

“He might have loved them both,” suggested Caora.

“He didn’t love either,” Geana replied. “Anyway, she asked us to ask you to help.”

“Why didn’t she ask me herself?” Caora was hurt, Eala could see.

“She’s known us since we were little girls,” said Geana. “She’s only four months younger than us. We grew up together.”

“And I’m a scary blue-robe,” said Caora, bitterly.

“My lady, people know what you are, and they know how old your Sponsor is,” replied Eala. “I believe that Lady Éirime is like you, not like Lord Aclaí, but nobody here can be sure of that. If Lord Aclaí came to live in the village, then you’d see how terrified people would be. People here care for you very much, but they know you are not like them, and they are cautious.”

Caora put her fingertips on her breastbone.

“In here I’m the same as them,” she said, sadly.

“I know, my lady,” replied Eala. “If you spoke to her, I’m sure she’d ask you. But she doesn’t want to bother you. She’s afraid to intrude.”

Caora looked at her, and then stood up.

“All right,” she said. “Let’s see.”

Eala hoped she was right. But it was too late to do anything else but find out. Eala put down the water.

“Geana, will you lead us?” asked Eala.

Geana led them out of the inn, across the bridge, to the house Eilite shared with her parents. Her father was outside, chopping wood with a heavy hand-axe. He looked up as they approached; saw Geana and Eala, then Lady Caora. He got to his feet.

“My lady, how can I help you?”

“We were looking for Eilite,” Geana said.

“She’s with Reo, Eala,” he said, looking at Geana. He looked nervously back at Caora. “You could try Reo’s house, my lady.”

“Thank you,” said Caora.

“It is nothing,” he replied.

Geana led them, along the river, to Reo’s house. As they left the village, they heard Reo’s dogs begin to bark. Arracht came tearing out, straight towards the three of them. Reo emerged, just too late to call him back, as the dog ran up to Caora. She didn’t sing any Words but she moved from her hip, and her arm and wrist moved slightly in an opening spiral. It was as if she gathered something from the air by her side, and then threw it towards the dog. The dog skidded to a halt, then turned and ran, yelping. It had not come closer than three paces to them: even Reo could see that Caora had not touched it. But as she looked at Caora, Geana could feel that same power that she had felt when she had spilt drink on her. She could see that Eala was frightened. It was the first time she had really felt that Caora was someone to be feared.

Arracht ran back, tail between his legs, and hid behind Reo: a ridiculous sight, as Arracht was a massive dog. Eilite came out of the cottage and looked at Arracht.

“Whatever scared him like..?”

She looked up, and saw the three of them. She took Reo’s arm, held him.

By the time Caora had walked over to them, she was back to normal, it seemed.

“Congratulations to ye both,” Caora said.

“Thank you, my lady,” said Reo.

Arracht held his head low and looked at her, the whites of his eyes showing for just a moment, and then he slunk into the house. Geana looked at Eilite, who spoke to Caora.

“My lady, I wanted to ask you a favour.”

Caora smiled, encouraging her to ask.

“Well, actually I wanted to ask you two favours.” She let go of Reo’s arm. “One of them I’d prefer to ask alone, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Caora stepped away from the twins. They watched as Caora sang Words of Power and then she spoke to Eilite, but there was no sound. Eilite looked back, spoke in reply, but again, they could hear nothing.

“What is happening?” asked Reo.

“There’s a wall between us that stops the sound,” said Geana. “It’s a blue-robe thing.”

“So they can’t hear us either?” asked Reo.

“They can’t.”

“You’re Geana, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“I know you’re trying to repair your friendship with Eilite. She cares about your friendship, or she wouldn’t be willing to forgive you.”

“I know. I never meant for her to be hurt like that.”

“Don’t hurt her again.” He spoke mildly, but it was a warning.

“I will try my best.”

Caora and Eilite returned, ending the discussion. Eilite spoke.

“Lady Caora has agreed to play for our wedding.”

The Chamberlain sat alone in his room at the top of the Hill, in the Court of the Favourites. He tried to spend some time every day alone, working on his experiment, but he didn’t always get time: the demands of his position on the Hill took time away from him.

But he couldn’t simply come off duty and return to his experiment. He also needed to clear his mind of distractions. If his mind was too busy with other thoughts, these thoughts would drown out the thoughts that arose from the experiment. Even when he did his best to clear his mind, the thoughts he had would affect the communications he received.

He was thinking about Midsummer Day. In the City, the Sun rose and set every day, but among his own people the summertime was a time when the Sun never set.

In the summer the Sun shone for months, day in and day out. His people lived in tents of leather. They hunted, fished, and enjoyed what life had to offer before the Sun set and the winter came again. The tribes would come together, share stories and news, make trades and exchange gifts, and parents would find wives and husbands for their sons and daughters. And if he returned, to walk tall among them, his family, his tribe, his people would all be proud of him.

Thinking of his family made him think of his younger brother, who nagged him about Selection every time he went home. It was all he talked about. And … the thought came: if you bring him to Selection, he will be dead before the Sun rises after winter.

The Chamberlain thought at first that he had imagined it, that his own worries were intruding in the process. But he answered. Can’t we keep him safe?

Perhaps you could, the thought replied, but you won’t.

The Chamberlain knew that there were many dangers for a Novice, and that most of those Selected for his Year were now dead. But most of them hadn’t had a brother on the top of the Hill. So he thought: Why not? You could tell me what to do to keep him safe.

I could tell you, the thought replied, but you will not follow my advice.

He remembered the other prediction he had obtained, about the first ten-day of the New Year. It was something he wanted for his brother, as he had had it for himself.

He will die, came the thought, unbidden.

But the Chamberlain saw the opportunity, even if he wasn’t sure of the source. He was sure of his own position, though. He was sure that his own power in the City would be enough to keep his brother safe. Especially with the prophecy.

As the days of the Month of Flowers went by and the Day of Midsummer approached, the twins noticed that Caora kept giving them the slip. At first they had noticed her absence, then they realised that she was deliberately going. Finally they resolved to follow her and when she realised they would not let her slip away quietly, she sang Words of Power and vanished in front of their eyes.

She was always back in time for the next meal and, knowing she was evading them, they accepted that they had no duty to be with her. Eala persuaded Geana to go back to their mother’s house: there was always useful work to do there and Mammy liked to see them.

Finally the Day of Midsummer came. On Midwinter’s Day, the people of Áthaiteorann danced all night, and on Midsummer’s Day, they danced all day. Geana was the first awake. She looked over at Eala and she listened to the sound of the rain on the roof. Then she looked over at Caora’s bed. She wasn’t there.

“Wake up, Eala. She’s gone again,” said Geana, prodding her sister.

Eala looked up, her green eyes bleary.

“What’s gone? It was right here a moment …” She looked around, as if noticing her surroundings for the first time. “Is it raining?”

“Torrents of it,” said Geana. “Caora’s up already. I don’t know where she is.”

The twins got up as quickly as they could. As they were getting up, Caora came back in, a mug in her hand.

“Come on, girls, there’s no time to waste. We have to save the day.”

She sang Words of Freshness over them and they came with her, one holding each of her hands. They went out back, avoiding the commons, and away on to the riverside path. The river was swollen, muddy, the surface troubled with eddies and turbulence. The girls both had sheepskin jackets, rubbed with beeswax to keep the wet off their bodies, but the rain got into their hair, which hung down on their cheeks and into their eyes, sending cold water trickling down their necks. As she felt it, even Eala envied Caora’s blue cloak.

They went up the riverbank, beyond the waterfall, to the high pastures.

“What are we going to see, my lady?” asked Geana.

“We’re going to see Reo and Eilite married. But first we have to save the day.”

Caora found a place on the pasture, away from the trees.

“This will do.” She drained off the mug, gave it to Eala. “Let’s clear up this mess,” she laughed. “Let’s make it shine.”

She rubbed her hands together and then she began to shout, a high clear voice holding one note. She was not shouting, she was singing, as loudly as her magnificent voice allowed her, singing Words of Power to the leaden sky. These Words didn’t whisper in corners of their minds. These coursed through the girls’ awareness, robbing them of the power of speech, robbing them of thought.

She flung her arms up as she sang and Eala and Geana saw the underside of the clouds ripple, like the surface of a pond when a rock is thrown in, but so much bigger. Then, as she continued to sing to the sky, the clouds parted and a shaft of sunlight came down, obliquely, because it was still early morning. They looked down at Áthaiteorann, illuminated, picked out by that great beam of sunshine. The sight made them feel tiny, like insects caught on a table when the shutters are opened. As Caora continued to sing, the blue area in the sky opened, becoming wider, until it spread above them, leaving the storm clouds all around them, on the horizon. Only then did Caora stop singing.

She brushed back her hood, and shook her dry hair. She was smiling, a big broad smile over her face. Eala had seen that look on her face once before, the night Spideog nearly died. She put her arms around both of them, hugging them to her.

“Have a happy Midsummer, girls,” she said. “Let’s go back and see what is happening, shall we?”

When they returned to the commons, the whole place was abuzz. Beatha came over to refill Caora’s mug.

As she gave Caora her drink, she asked, “Was that you, my lady?”

“Was what me?” asked Caora.

“The sunshine? You can see that the rain is falling all around us, but Áthaiteorann has sunshine.”

“It has brightened up, hasn’t it? It’s good. The sun should shine on Midsummer’s Day, don’t you think?”

“I am sure Reo and Eilite will think so, my lady. I’m sure they will be very grateful for it.”

Caora turned to her and the smile was gone.

“Now, Beatha, don’t you dare go putting ideas into their heads. I struggle enough with trying to avoid the whole village being indebted to me, without people putting crazy ideas about that I am responsible for the weather. To control weather with Words requires a powerful Formula, beyond all but the oldest of the Sea People. I’m not the Mentor, Beatha. I’m not even Lord Aclaí.”

Beatha looked at her, not quite willing to let it go.

“Is it something your Sponsor would be able to do, Lady Caora?”

“Enough, Beatha,” she replied. “Believe what you will, but don’t get anyone thinking they are indebted to me. And don’t spoil a lovely day. We’re both going to be busy.”

“As you wish, my lady,” she replied, and she turned away.

Caora finished the mug and went over to Leathar and Fuiseoga.

As they walked, Geana asked, “Is that something only the oldest of the Sea People can do, my lady?”

“Look, I meant what I said. I hate having people indebted to me. Can’t I just make people happy for one day?”

Eala said, “I think Beatha just wanted to thank you, Lady Caora.”

“I know, Eala,” Caora whispered.

Then they were with Leathar and Fuiseoga and that was the end of that conversation. They went out over the bridge, to the clear space before the Sun, where the dancing always happened. They took their seats under the roof.

Leathar looked up at the sky.

“Do you think the rain will return, Lady Caora?”

“It won’t, I’m sure of it.”

Leathar eyed the horizon suspiciously. “You are sure?”

“I am sure. Let’s not worry about the weather, let’s just enjoy it.”

They did enjoy it. Reo and his friends arrived soon after and Caora, Fuiseoga and Leathar played music for them, as the crowds gathered. Eala went over to Eilite’s house, to see how she was getting on. They had been friends since they could first walk: Eala belonged with her today. Geana stayed close to Caora, taking care of her. She was aware of Ordóg standing alone, watching her, and she realised as she felt his gaze that the consequences of her guilt were not over yet.

Then Eala was at the other side, over by the great oak, waving. Geana leaned over to Lady Caora.

“They’re ready,” she said.

Caora looked up at Eala. Then she looked at Leathar. Leathar looked at the others and checked they were ready to play. Then he beat the time, and they began.

Reo started, and looked around. The crowd watching drew apart and the first of the girls came in. Among them was Eilite, in a long dress of red silk. Geana could see it in the faces of the girls and women watching: how had Eilite and Reo afforded to get her silk? Reo was staring at her, and so was Ordóg, she saw. Eilite came in like a queen and walked over to Reo and his friends. There she stopped. The music stopped and there was silence. Caora put down her harp, took up her mug and leaned back in her seat. Eala looked over to make sure she was all right. This was where, in Sneachta’s wedding, things had gone wrong.

But the musicians didn’t start. Instead, Eilite began to sing unaccompanied. Eala could see that Caora was taking an interest in what she did, the way she took an interest when the twins were trying to do something she had taught them. And, as Eilite sang the Song of the Bride, Eala heard how her voice had improved so much. She didn’t sing like a girl, she sang like a woman, her voice powerful enough that she did not need instruments. She realised Caora had been training her. That was where she had been going when she was evading them.

Geana sat near Caora, as close as she could without appearing over-familiar with their Steward. She could see how Caora was hurt, even now, but she could also see how her interest in her pupil was stopping it from overwhelming her. So she drank, but not too much, and at least she could stay there and watch and only those who knew her would notice.

Then Reo took Eilite in his arms and everyone cheered their approval. Leathar called for them to drink to the new couple and the cheers continued. Eilite hugged her new husband. Then Leathar looked over at Caora and Fuiseoga and he marked time for the dance the bride had requested.

The Hall of the Novices stood at the bottom of the Hill: a structure of irregular stone blocks carved to fit minutely together. The stone walls supported a roof of stone slabs, but reinforced with paper-thin lintels of Metal. Here and there in the roof and walls, blocks and slabs of quartz had been introduced, to allow light in. The Metal support allowed it to be bigger than any other building in the dominions of the Sea People: fully ten paces wide and thirty long. At one end there was a raised platform and, at the other, double doors made up the full width and height of the far wall.

The Sea People sat on benches and ate their evening meal at trestle tables. The Favourites were around the Mentor’s table on the raised platform, looking down on the rest: their appearance was that of a collection of young men and women from all around the world, but to those that knew, they were a group that included the best part of four millennia of experience. They all looked to their leader, looking for his love and approval. He was a young-looking, rather plain man of average height, with short sandy hair and striking green eyes.

A clear space existed in the middle of the hall, before the table where the Mentor and his Favourites sat, but either side was a sea of turquoise blue cloth: cloaks on the shoulders of diners from all over the world, united in their service to the City.

Among the diners, servants came and went, providing food and drink. They also came from all over the world and, like their masters and mistresses, the servants were attractive. But although beneath their blue cloaks the Adepts wore all manner of clothing, according to their own origins and the fashions of their patrol groups, all the servants wore the same uniform: a wide strip of pale yellow linen, with a slot in the middle for the head, covering front and back and tied with a cord around the waist to make a simple tunic. It was a design of cloth woven without stitches or fastenings, unchanged in a thousand years. Some of the younger servants were shy, and cautious as they moved, aware that as they bent or leaned their bodies might be exposed. But the older ones did not worry about it, being used to their positions among the blue-robes.

As the servants cleared the tables after the Evening Meal, the Mentor looked up. He knew that there was some sort of entertainment planned for the evening and he waited to see what it was.

The great doors opened and he watched drummers come in, tall dark folk from the great continent to the east of the City. They wore jewellery, carved wood and gold in their hair, around their necks, on wrists and ankles. But instead of clothing, their upper bodies were painted in bright colours. The Mentor had not been offered music since Éirime had left and, although he appreciated the sensitivity, he missed seeing young people dance.

The drumming began: music of a sort, but no melody, all rhythm. The drums were very expressive, their pitch changing as the beat throbbed through the hall, a deep loud rhythm that could be felt in the belly. And then, with a long cry, ululated with the tongues of the drummers, the dancers appeared.

They were dressed in little more than paint, and the dance they danced was utterly wanton, filled with shaking, thrusting and gyrating whose significance was unmistakable. The dancers were in pairs, a boy with a girl, each moving exactly in time with the others.

The drummers quickened their beat and the dancers went faster and, as they did, each boy and girl drew closer, until they began to touch in their movements. The dance of boy and girl were not identical: they complemented each other, so that, if they danced a little closer, they could have danced as he penetrated her. The Mentor saw the dancers react to the proximity, saw their almost-naked bodies aroused. He glanced around for a moment and saw that almost everyone else in the hall was noticing the same thing.

As the pace quickened, the dancers were touching, and pressing against one another. Then, after a few breaths of that, the drummers stopped and the dancers stopped with them. The whole hall roared its approval.

The Chamberlain was by his side.

“What is it?” the Mentor asked.

“Did you like this dance, Mentor?” he asked.

“I did, but I wanted to see how long it would go on, how far they would go.”

“Two of the Novices know this dance.”

“Oh, really?” The Mentor was interested. “Are they from the same place?”

“The girl is. She has been teaching a northern boy. When they dance, they go further than that.”

He looked up. “And you have got these dancers ready at the top of the Hill?”

“I have, Mentor.”

“You’re a good Chamberlain,” answered the Mentor.

He got up to lead the Favourites up the Hill and everyone in the hall rose with him. He leaned a little closer to his Chamberlain.

“Let us meet this couple, then,” the Mentor said.

Eala came into their room, carrying the lamp, and Caora and Geana followed. Geana was limping a little: her feet hurt from the dancing. Caora was unsteady, but no more than usual, and she was smiling.

Eala wondered about it, but Geana asked instead.

“You are happy, my lady. Do you think the day went well?”

“It did, Geana. You spoke to Eilite, didn’t you?”

“Why do you say that?”

“I expected to get the usual problems about debts when I tried to help her, but she didn’t make a fuss. She said that you owed her a favour. Did you?”

“In a way, my lady.”

“Was it your idea to get her to sing unaccompanied?”

“In a way, my lady.”

“Well, you’re not telling me everything, are you?”

“I’m not, my lady. I did something bad. You’ve helped me make it up to her. Thank you for that, my lady.”

“You are not in my debt, Geana. Because I’ve been helping and because it’s all been in the preparation, this is the first time in a very long time that I’ve enjoyed a wedding. You did that. Ye girls are manipulative, I know, but I have never benefited from it like this. That puts me in your debt, Geana, more than you can know. So, what can I do to repay you?”

Eala was shocked and upset at how that turned out. She didn’t think that Geana’s indiscretions with Ordóg and ill-treatment of Eilite should result in her being offered a debt by Caora. But what happened next was worse.

“Well?” prompted Caora. “Whatever you want.”

Geana said, “Take us to Selection, my lady.”

“What do you think this Selection will be like?”

Liús looked up. He looked across the courtyard, to the fountain in the centre of the Court of the Favourites, where Eibheara sat in the fading light with her friend, a thin, dark-haired woman with pale skin, whose Sea-people beauty was all-but-hidden by her short hair and her scruffy appearance.

Liús spoke. “I don’t think it will be very different to last year’s, Lady Eibheara. The Traditions of the City don’t change much from year to year.”

Éise was sitting beside him on the bench, as dark as he was fair, holding his hand.

She added, “What do you think it will be like, Lady Eibheara? Do you expect anything out of the ordinary?”

“I don’t think it will be any different for me,” Eibheara replied.

“What do you mean?” asked Liús.

Eibheara laughed, and Liús knew she was laughing at him. But he didn’t understand the joke. Eibheara’s companion, Cathúa, spoke.

“She’s referring to the threat each new Selection brings to us.” Cathúa looked directly at Liús. “And particularly to you, Favourite. With every new Year, there is the chance that some purple Novice will arrive who will attract the Mentor’s attention and be brought up the Hill to join us.”

“Why is that particularly threatening to him, Lady Cathúa?” Éise asked.

“Because he is the Favourite,” Eibheara answered. “Few are sent down from the top of the Hill, but being the Favourite is a precarious position.” She smiled, and there was cruelty in her smile. “It’s not something you will understand.”

Éise had been brought to the top of the Hill at Midsummer, but with Liús: she was a favourite, but not the Favourite. Éise squeezed Liús’ hand and he squeezed back. They both understood that he had no fear: they would rather be just two favourites and neither be The Favourite. But they knew that Eibheara didn’t know that and they were glad of it. It had been a difficult and potentially dangerous three months.

From the darkness, Aclaí spoke.

“It happened to you, Eibheara,” he said.

“And to you, Aclaí,” she replied. “I bet you’re glad she’s Retired.”

“Are you glad that he Retired, Eibheara?” He laughed. “Or perhaps you arranged it.”

Eibheara laughed back. “It’s always nice to help people get what they want. He wanted to go. I helped him.”

“Do you still hear of him sometimes?” asked Éise. Then she added, “Who has heard of Lady Éirime since she Retired?”

“She’s not someone you’d fail to hear, is she?” commented Cathúa.

The rest of them laughed, but Aclaí said, “We won’t ever hear from her again.”

Cathúa looked concerned.

“Her breath?” she quietly asked.

“Her breathing is so strong, she will out-live us all. But she will never return to the City,” explained Aclaí.

Cathúa looked reassured.

“I miss her,” she said.

“You are not the only one,” Aclaí admitted, before turning away from the conversation.

After that Eibheara looked in the direction of the Chamberlain’s room.

“I wonder what he does in there,” Eibheara mused.

In his room, the Chamberlain tried to ignore the laughter outside. The Selection was tomorrow, and he knew his brother was already in the City. He couldn’t get the thought out of his head, and he wanted to learn more. There was a lot to worry about, but he cleared his mind.

This Selection will change everything on the Hill, the thought came suddenly, surprising him.

For me? He thought.

For everyone, it answered. But most especially for you.

Because of my brother?

One of the new Novices should be Favourite within a ten-day. This Novice will force the Mentor to make a chain of decisions and, if he makes the wrong decision, the City will fall.

How long?

That is up to the Mentor. The chain of decisions starts at the Selection, but it could go on for centuries.

The Chamberlain laughed to himself. So I’ll have reached Immortal Rank and Retired by then, he thought.

You will not leave the City until the new Favourite does.

Is this about my brother?

If you want to save your brother, you must call the Initiations in strict order of status.

Uninitiated Novices don’t have status, he thought. That makes no sense.

They do not have status, but their Sponsors do.

The Chamberlain thought about that. Well, if the prophecy was going to come true, if the Mentor made a purple Novice Favourite within the first ten-day, then he would likely be the first one Initiated. If the Chamberlain only brought one purple Novice in the first ten-day, then it would have to be the one he chose. So what were the odds that someone of greater status than him would bring a Candidate tomorrow?

The question was ambiguous. Or at least, he thought, it could be argued. The obvious way to order status was according to Rank. But he was one of the Favourites, even if he was only Twelfth Rank. Not only was he a Favourite, but he was Chamberlain — by that measure, only Liús, the Favourite, was of higher status. On the other hand, there were two dozen Veterans and half a dozen Immortals whose Rank exceeded his.

If he discounted those who weren’t Favourites, that left Aclaí, Eibheara, Cathúa — and Liús. If they didn’t bring Candidates, he rationalised, then he could put his brother forward first, with safety.

Eala heard Caora get up. She quietly shifted Geana’s arm and got up herself. Geana was snoring: she couldn’t keep up with Caora’s drinking, even when she tried to. She needed to learn to pretend to drink more and to appear to be more affected by it. It was the Second Lost Day of Autumn, three months after Midsummer and, with the harvest in, everyone in Áthaiteorann was relaxing, celebrating a successful summer. The celebrations had taken their toll.

“My lady?” Eala called softly.

“Geana?” came the voice from behind the curtain.

“It is Eala, my lady. Geana is asleep.”

“Good,” came the unexpected reply. “Will you come and help me?”

Eala was just reaching for the curtain when Caora swept it aside. She was in her blue cloak, beneath it her favourite linen dress, and tall boots. Eala thought of her sister, drunk on autumn wine and how her attempt to keep up with the lighter, more slender Caora left her unconscious. She followed Caora out of the room into the commons. Caora smelt of wine, but her hands were steady, her walk graceful.

“Eala,” Caora said, “you don’t have to go tomorrow. I promised Geana I would take her, however little I want to, but just because she wants to go, you don’t have to.”

“I know,” Eala answered. “But if I don’t go, I will regret it.”

“You will regret it more if you do go, Eala. What do you think will happen?”

“We will present ourselves to the Mentor and he will choose Geana. You and I will come back to Áthaiteorann. And then, my lady, I will serve you here, and we will never leave again.”

Eala could see in Caora’s face that she expected the same.

Caora whispered, “Then why go?”

“Because if she does get Selected and I don’t go, my lady, I will always wonder what might have happened.” She realised she was in danger of showing her emotions and was glad of the darkness. “And I will miss her, my lady. We have never been parted before. If I am here, missing her, I will know I did everything I could to be with her.”

Caora stopped walking. “Eala, you are forgetting what will happen if you are both Selected. It will be easier for her: she has been in love before.”

“My lady!” Eala objected. “Just because I am more careful of gossip doesn’t mean I have never felt love.”

“Eala, I’m sorry. I just thought you weren’t interested in boys yet.”

“I won’t look for a husband until Geana is married. There is no point. I am interested in men, but they are not interested in me. They won’t be, not until she is married.” Eala shrugged, determined not to care. “Anyway, I have responsibilities. There is Mammy and Spideog. There is you, my lady. I will not turn away from those responsibilities just for a man.”

“If I was choosing one of ye for a wife, Eala, it is you I would choose, not your sister.” Lady Caora looked away as soon as she had said it, leaving Eala to wonder how drunk she actually was. “If I was a man, that is,” she whispered.

“Perhaps you would, my lady,” answered Eala, “but men don’t feel the same way as women do.”

They walked through the commons in silence. Then Eala said, “My lady, you should set the Visions.”

Caora sighed. “I suppose I must.”

“Beatha will be grateful, my lady.”

Eala watched as Caora selected a clear space of wall at one end of the commons, made up the frame and softly sang her Words of Power. The frame became filled with darkness: there was nothing coming from the City yet. But Eala knew they would all be gathered around, to watch her and her sister get rejected.

As they walked into the cool night, Caora looked back.

“I would release you if you found a husband, Eala.”

“If you had your way, my lady, you would never have taken us in the first place. Mammy insisted.”

“You are right. But I have been very glad of ye both. Ye take care of me. Ye are the family I no longer have.”

“I know. My lady, I will not simply go because you released me. I am my mother’s daughter, Lady Caora.”

“I see that, Eala. Ye both are. There is less difference between ye than you think. If the Mentor chooses either of ye, I think he might choose both. I wish neither of ye would go. I told myself I would never take a Candidate to Selection, before I had been in the City a year. But a promise is a promise. I just hope ye can be strong for each other.”

Caora reached the stable, opened the door and sang a song ever so softly to the horses. Old Longeán poked his head out, shaking his mane.

“We will be all right, Lady Caora. Even if we are both Selected, we will be Novices in the dormitory, like you described. We will be strong for each other. Even if the Mentor hurts us, it will only be for one night.”

“That one night will break your heart, Eala.”

“I know it would, my lady. But could I leave my sister alone and heartbroken?”

The horse came out and Caora tied the halter around his nose.

“My lady,” Eala added, “you promised to take Geana once. When you have taken her, if she is rejected, we can come home again. You said that most Candidates are rejected, that most of the successful ones are trained and coached by their own Sponsors. We are two country girls and we are not as pretty as Geana thinks we are. Tomorrow night we’ll be back home here, all three of us.”

“You are probably right, Eala. I really hope you are right.”

“I hope I am right too, my lady. And I will make sure she doesn’t ask again.”

“Thank you.”

Caora whispered in the horse’s ear, then jumped up on to its back.

“Shall I come with you, my lady? I know you don’t like the City.”

“I am not going to the City, Eala. I will go through the Forest, as far as Lorgcoiseaigéan, and get a Flyer there. I will bring it back through the Gate and be back here before dawn. You go back to bed.”

“All right, Lady Caora,” Eala replied, looking up. “I will see you in the morning, then.”

Caora kicked her heels and the horse started to walk.

“Come on,” she told it, “you’ve done nothing but eaten Ólachán’s grass all summer. Time to do some work. Time to go back into the Forest.”

Eala watched her ride carefully through the orchard, then over the bridge and up the hill towards the wood. They entered the trees and were lost from sight. She turned back to the inn, crept inside and lay down beside her sister.

Geana turned over, and Eala felt her warmth. The thought suddenly occurred to her that she might be sleeping alone the following night. The fear of it prickled at her eyes.

She put her arm over her sister and tried to sleep.

Now Read More

I hope you enjoyed reading this excerpt, and that you now have a clearer idea of what "The Fall of the Sea People" is about.

The rest of the first volume covers Éirime’s return to the City of Immortals, what happened at the Selection, and how this affected everyone in the City. And, I must confess, it ends on a bit of a cliff-hanger.

Venus and the Sea People is available both as a paperback and as an ebook: ISBN 978-0957158504 or ASIN B006SPEAEI. Or you can go to my website: http://www.henryhallan.me/vatsp.htm.

— Henry Hallan

Glossary

The Sea People spoke the language which was the ancestor of the Gaelic family, and I have rendered the spelling of their names using Irish: the Gaelic language that is closest to that ancestor. However, I have borrowed a gender-convention for names from the romance languages: names ending in an A or an E are feminine and names ending in other letters are masculine.

The language of the Sea People, like most Gaelic languages, has a distinction between second person singular and plural, and this has carried over into Hiberno-English. I have used these second person plural forms, ye for (all) you, yere for (all) your, to communicate this distinction.

In the pronunciation guides, any single vowel is short. They should be pronounced as pat, pet, pit, pot, putt. Long vowels are represented as vowels in combination with other letters: aw, ay, ee, oh and uu, prounounced approximately saw, say, see, sew and sue respectively. Remember that an e at the end of a word is never silent, unlike English.

The sound represented by TCH is a blend of the T and the CH; the sound represented by KH varies from the hard sound of the German ich and the softer sound of the Scottish loch, depending on the nearest vowel: the softer sound is next to an A, an O or a U; the harder sound is next to an I or an E.

The pronunciations offered are only very approximate. Irish is a very rich language phonetically, and those of us who have grown up speaking English struggle to distinguish all the sounds. Even among the Sea People, there would have been different accents, and certainly in modern Ireland and Scotland there are several pronunications. These are outside the scope of this appendix, but there are some excellent sources available.

Abhainne (AH-wan-e; in the old City accent, AW-en-e) abhainn is a river.

Aclaí (AK-lee), means agility.

Anleacán (un-LEKH-awn), means The Slab.

Arracht (ARR-akht) is a monster.

Arrachtumair (ARR-akht-um-ir) is a monster from a tank: an artificial lifeform or genetically engineered organism.

Áthaiminn (aw-ha-MIN) the ford over the Minn, a river to the north of the Teorainn. The atha- prefix on a place-name is equivalent to the English suffix -ford, and means a river crossing.

Áthaiteorann (aw-ha-TCHOR-an): ford over the Teorainn.

Beatha (BA-ha) means life.

Blátha (BLAW-ha) bláth means a flower.

Bradán (BRAD-awn) is a salmon.

Cabairí (KAB-a-ree) cabaire means talkative.

Caora (KIR-a) is a sheep

Cathúa (KA-huu-a): cathú is guilt.

Ceann (KEE-an) is a head.

Cearca (KEE-ar-ka) cearc is a hen.

Ceatha (KYA-ha) means a rainstorm.

Ceathrua (kaha-ROO-a) from ceathru, fourth.

Colm (KOL-um) means a dove or a pigeon.

Damhánalla (DA-wawn-ola; in the old City accent, DAUWN-alah): damhán alla is a spider.

Duille (DIL-le) means a leaf.

Eala (A-la), means a swan.

Éirime (ay-RIM-e) from éirim, a talent.

Eibheara (ey-VAR-a) from eibhear, granite.

Eile (E-le) means other, another.

Eilite (AY-lit-e): eilit is a doe.

Éise (AYSH-e): éis means after, or following.

Féileacána (FAY-la-qawn-a) féileacán is a butterfly or moth.

Flannbhuía (FLANN-wee-a): flannbhuí literally means a fiery yellow — orange was not a distinct colour in the language of the Sea People.

Fleánna (FLAW-na) fleá is a festival.

Fómhara (fo-WAR-a) an Fómhar is the autumn.

Foscúil (FOS-kuul) closed, hidden.

Fuiseoga (FWISH-og-a) fuiseog is a lark.

Gainmheach (GAN-vakh) means sandy.

Gaotha (GWAY-ha) gaoth is wind.

Geana (GYAN-na): gean means affection.

Geancacha (GYAN-ko-kha): geancach suggests something twisted or malformed, and although her mother looked at her nose and gave her this name as a term of endearment for a baby, now she is grown Geana doesn’t let anyone else but her mother call her Geancacha.

Geanúile (GYAN-uul-a) means affectionate.

Idireatarthu (id-IR-ath-er-hu) means inbetween

Iorai (UR-ree) iora is a squirrel.

Innealta (INN-iltch-a) neat and tidy.

Iolar, (UL-ar) means an eagle.

Lách (LAWKH) kind, good-natured.

Léaró (LAY-roh) means a spark.

Leathar (LA-har) means leather.

Liús (LYUUS) means the fish called a pike.

Longeán (LON-gawn) means gristle.

Lorgcoiseaigéan (lorg-KOSH-a-gaynn) means the footprint of the ocean, and refers to a big natural harbour over the ocean, East of the City.

Luchóg (LUKH-ohg) means a mouse.

Méar (MAYR) is a finger.

Miotal (MITTH-al), means metal. The Sea People knew gold and copper and another metal that is not known to us, but is simply referred to in the text as Metal. It is a synonym for hardness and is the material out of which they forged their weapons and armour.

Nóiníne (NO-neen-e) níinín is a daisy.

Óire (OH-ir-e) from óir, gold.

Ólachán (OH-lakh-awn) ól is drink, possibly an unfortunate name for an innkeeper

Ordóg (OHR-dohg) means a thumb.

Reo, (ROH) frost.

Rian (REE-an) mark, trace, track.

Rónmór (ROHN-mohr), literally big-seal, is a sea-lion.

Rósa (ROH-sa) rós means a rose.

Saonta (SAY-un-tah) naive, gullible.

Seilidí (SHEL-id-ee) seilide is a snail or a slug.

Sneachta (SHNAKHT-a) means snow.

Spéire (SHPAY-reh), sky.

Stail (sthall) means a male horse.

Spideog (SHPID-ogg) means a robin.

Teorainn (TCHOR-inn) means border.

Tírcapall (TCHEER-kop-al) horse-land.

Tírcúpla, (tcheer-KOOP-lah), double-land, twin-land. Tírcupla is a pair of islands separated by a narrow strait.

Toirneach (THOR-nyakh) thunder.

Tonn (THUN) is a wave, as in the sea.

Úlloileán (ool-ILL-lawn) isle of apples.

Calendar

The Sea People calendar divides the year into two seasons: winter, and summer; each divided into six months of three ten-days each. The new year starts on the first day of the winter seasons, the Autumn Day.

The winter months start with the day of the autumn equinox (in the northern hemisphere) and the winter months are:-

- Autumn (September-October)

- Death (October-November)

- Fruits (November-December)

- Midwinter (December-January)

- Light (January-February)

- Planting (February-March)

The summer months start with the day of the spring equinox, and are:-

- Spring (March-April)

- Life (April-May)

- Flowers (May-June)

- Midsummer (June-July)

- Darkness (July-August)

- Harvest (August-September)

Feast days fall on the first day of the first and fourth months; the eleventh days of the second and fifth months and the twenty-first days of the third and fifth months. That means the feasts of Fruits and Flowers are only one ten-day behind the feasts of Midwinter and Midsummer, respectively.

The timetable of the City is based on the ten-days, and the first, second and sixth days are assigned as rest days, although the patrols still continue and the servants still work.

It will be seen that this calendar adds up to 360 days: accordingly there are two or three days at the end of each season: the Lost Days of Winter and the Lost Days of Summer. The length of these are determined by astronomical observation: when the calendar runs out, the new calendar starts after measurement of day and night length shows that the equinox has arrived.

Venus and the Sea People

Copyright: Henry Hallan

First published: 1 January 2012

Publisher: Cnoc Mhuilinn

Excerpt prepared for free distribution 29 Feb 2012

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblence to real persons, places and events is coincidental.

The right of Henry Hallan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or photocopying, or otherwise transmitted without written permission of the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

Edited by Órfhlaith ní Chonaill.

Cover art by Linda R. James.

http://www.henryhallan.me