"Well, son." His father's eyes said that he, too, was caught between gladness and loss, "I guess I need not tell you how proud I am this day. That a son of mine be found acceptable to the Meri ..." He gazed again at the stellate mark on Leal's forehead and shook his head in wonder.

"Does it matter that I'll not be taking on the trade?" asked Leal ingenuously.

Giolla Mercer laughed. "Ah, the girls will do fine by the trade. You've something more important to do with your years than tending a shop, however fine a shop it might be. You've done well, Leal. But you don't need me to tell you that."

Leal laid a hand on his father's shoulder. "Oh, you're wrong, da. I do need you to tell me."

They left him then, amid more tears and smiles and exhortations to be warm and well-fed and happy and to listen well to the Meri. He could promise them that much, at least. He watched them out of sight, his eyes lingering on the corner where sat Iain Spenser's public house, then turned to where the Osraed Bevol and Eadmund awaited him.

Bevol handed him a small leather portfolio, hand-tooled and gilded and fastened with a gold clasp. Leal took it delicately, somewhat in awe of being asked to take a missal to the Cyne.

"Now remember," said Bevol, "that you do not need to wait for an answer to this, but do give it directly into the hands of the Cyne and do tell the Abbod, Osraed Ladhar, what it is you have delivered. And give him this." The elder Osraed produced a second, less ornate envelope and handed that to Leal as well. "This will explain to our Brothers of the Jewel what the Cyne's message contains."

The message resting in his hand, Leal felt an odd tingling run up his spine and, for a moment, he looked at the other Osraed though a haze of shimmering motes. He opened his mouth and said, "There are Osraed in Creiddylad who will be displeased by this. They have lost the Touch and the breeze of inspiration no longer blows unhindered through their souls."

Bevol, his eyes closed as if he savored the river's perfume, nodded. "Yes. A hard truth, though. We like to believe the connection can never be lost."

"What are you saying? How does Osraed Lealbhallain know of matters involving the Osraed of Creiddylad?"

Leal's eyes returned to focus on Osraed Eadmund's face. The older man was glancing from him to Bevol in startled bemusement.

He hadn't felt the Touch, Leal realized, but Bevol had. He was stunned. Despite the evidence of history, it had never really occurred to him that receptivity to the Meri's Eibhilin Light was something that could be lost. Perhaps once, long ago, it might have happened but surely not in this age...

He shivered.

Bevol didn't respond to Eadmund's questions. His eyes holding Leal's, he said simply, "We have the lesson of history. Pray the Meri we are not destined to repeat that lesson."

History. That had not been Lealbhallain's strongest subject, but he knew the lesson Bevol referred to. Only once in the history of the Osraed had the Light guttered among the Meri's Chosen. Once, during the reign of Cyne Liusadhe. Once, over two hundred years before.

We like to forget that, Leal reflected, watching the river glide beneath the keel of the westbound barge. We tell ourselves it cannot happen again. Perhaps we blind ourselves. Perhaps it is happening already.

He was cold, though the breeze from the water was not particularly chill. The boy in him wanted to protest that he would not allow it to happen. He would go to Creiddylad and wake the Osraed that slumbered there. He, Lealbhallain, would wake the dead if necessary. But the boy gave way quickly to the man who calmly determined to deliver his message and pursue his mission among Creiddylad's poor as the Meri directed, and to never, never lose sight of Her Light.

Standing on Cirkebridge, Taminy let her gaze float upriver toward the quay. Along the broad, slow-moving channel, warm stone took the Sun's light and radiated it into the balmy air. Old stone, new stone; a piebald coat of aging, mellow and new, crisp patchwork. The art of mason and stonecutter reflected dreamily in Halig-tyne's slow, liquid ramble-from the intricately carved balustrade to the rise of brick and beam storefront, the river mirrored all without prejudice.

Taminy's eyes welcomed the watery images. They were more familiar than the sharper, clearer lines of the orderly storefronts. She felt like a child waking from a recurring dream.

Oh, yes. I've had this dream before, of walls that run upright and corners that meet sharply and sunlight that falls straight down.

Upstream at Cornerquay, the new Mercer's Bridge cast its rippling, shadowy twin into the flood. Taminy could just see a sparse, bobbing forest of masts off to the right where the river curled lovingly at the feet of the palisades like a hearth cat. Her eyes made the cliff-climb effortlessly. Flying, hawk-like up the ageless expanse of rock, they crested just above the walls of Halig-liath, fluttered with the banners, came to rest on the gleaming tile roof of the central rotunda.

How I loved you, she thought, though I was not welcome. Her mouth made a wry twist. Or perhaps because I was not welcome.

She still loved Halig-liath. She loved all of Nairne, pain and joy. A hundred years has changed you not at all.

Ah, not so. All of Caraid-land is changed.

The thought came from close by and far away. Taminy paused her own contemplations to consider it, not needing to ask from whence it came. It was true, of course. She could feel it. From the Osraed in their chambers, from the villagers drifting past her on the bridge, from the Cirkemaster, from his daughter.

She closed her eyes. Yes, even from the river, crawling beneath the bridge, vibrating the stone beneath her feet.

"Taminy!"

Eyes open, she turned her head to see Gwynet's bright head bobbing toward her from Cirkeside, wending her way around a cluster of chatting women, a pony cart, a puff of sheep. She paused at the sheep to pat noses and caress wool, and smiled at the young shepherd as they swept past her like low-lying clouds.

"Am I late?" she asked, breathless. "I don't mean to be, but Master Tynedale had a raft of books to carry."

"Hmmm. And a story to tell, too, I'll wager," Taminy said, tapping the girl's sun-pinked nose. She turned and began to walk toward Greenside.

Gwynet fell into step beside her-two to her one. "Oh, and he did! All about how Ruanaidhe's Leap got to be called tha'."

Taminy's brows ascended in mock dismay. "Oh, well, there's naught like a fine tale of murder and suicide to fill a child's head."

"It was powerful sad," said Gwynet. "Poor Cwen Goscelin-to have to watch her dear husband murdered right afore her eyes. And poor little Riagan Thearl-to lose his da so."

And what of your da, child, Taminy thought, whom you never knew? Poor you-but you'd never think it.

"Cyne Siolta was a very good Cyne wasn't he?"

"Yes, I believe he was."

"Aye. Master Tynedale says so too." Her feet dragged as she spoke. "He says he was one of the very best Cynes ever.... Why would Ruanaidhe want to kill him?"

"Now, Osraed Tynedale must surely have told you that."

"Oh, well, yes. For his Uncle Haefer locked up in Halig-liath. But tha's just the scum reason, in't it?"

Taminy glanced at her sharply. "The scum reason?"

"Like the scum stuff tha' floats atop a bog puddle. The real is underneath, in't it? I figure that were Ruanaidhe's toppermost reason-the one that come out of his head first. But Halig-liath's no kind of prison and his uncle were happy there, which Ruanaidhe must've known, too, for he spoke with him not a sevenday before he went off and murdered Cyne Siolta."

"Then why do you think he killed the Cyne?"

Gwynet stopped walking to ponder that. "Not for his uncle. For himself, I think. 'Cause he was grieving."

"Grieving? For what?"

"For the loss of his uncle. He must've known the Hillwild was prenticed to the Osraed and that he meant to take the Pilgrim Walk. Well, Haefer Hillwild was the Meri's then, sure as could be. Dead to Ruanaidhe, like. He'd no more lead his men into battle with Her Kiss on his soul. Angry, the young Hillwild must've been at tha' and powerful grieved. And so he gave his anger to Cyne Siolta who'd put his uncle away from him. And he passed on his grief to those who loved Siolta as he loved Haefer Hageswode." She paused, nodding, then said, "How raw to know, in the end, that it could nowise stop the hurting. All that grief and he put the biggest burden on himself. He lost all and every. Poor Ruanaidhe."

She put her hand upon the bridge wall and leaned out to peer over into the water running, thick, below. "Do you think he really trans-ported into a river silkie like as they said?"

Poor Ruanaidhe, thought Taminy. "Transformed, you mean," she said aloud. "And in a hundred and forty-five years I doubt five people have cried for Ruanaidhe Hillwild. But you-you cry for everyone." She put a hand on Gwynet's shoulder and pressed it. "Bless you, Gwynet."

"Am blessed, mistress," she murmured, shooting her a sideways glance. "And greatly so." She looked back at the water. "You know these things, mistress Taminy-did Ruanaidhe the Red become a river silkie?"

"What? And ruin a perfectly good legend? You must wonder along with everyone else." Taminy grasped Gwynet's shoulders and turned her toward the Greenside shore. "Walk, or we'll never get our errands done."

They visited the Mercer's first, for candles, cook pots and oddments, then the Tanner's for some shoes and, last of all, they went to the shop of the Webber, Marnie-o-Loom. The shop had belonged to Marnie's aged grandfather when Taminy had last set foot in it. And, here, there was change. The cloth that hung on display on wall or rack, that lay folded soft on table and in window, was finer, showed more variety of color and pattern than the old Webber's. Marnie was a wonder at her craft. The shop walls had been covered in places with cloth that was skillfully attached with glue or varnish of some sort. And the floors had the gleam of polished new pine and were covered with a riot of hand-loomed rugs.

A young man behind the cutting table was the only person in the shop, but from an arched doorway at the rear of the room came the clatter-thunk of working looms-like a chorus of arrhythmic drums.

"May I help you?" the young man asked and smiled engagingly.

Taminy returned the smile, her hand flitting over a roll of soft, thick twyla wool perched next to the table on a cutting rack. "I'm looking for winter cloth," she said, "for cold weather gear."

"Ah, coat cloth then?"

"Coats and hoods and good, warm blouses."

"That piece you've got your hand on is as fine a bit of wool as you'll ever see. Softest in town and truest of color." He winked. "Granmar's secret."

"It is lovely," Taminy agreed, admiring the vivid green of the fabric. "How much per yard?"

"Seventy-five oonagh. It would look grand on your little sister," he added, smiling at Gwynet, who was inspecting a fleece hood, "and even grander on you."

"Thank you. You're very kind," said Taminy and felt an odd stirring of pleasure at the compliment.

"You're new to Nairne," the youth observed. "I saw you at Tell Fest, didn't I?"

"May have. I'm Taminy. Taminy-a-Gled. Gwynet and I live up at the Manor with Osraed Bevol."

He shifted awkwardly. "Ah, of course! You set my Granmar's tongue wagging, right enough. Like to have fallen off. Leastwise, we'd have liked it to at times. So, are you ... er ... are you going up to Halig-liath?"

"No."

His open, apple-shiny face gleamed with relief. "Oh, that's fine, then."

Taminy's mouth twitched with the desire to grimace. Not one of those girls, then, eh? "I tutor Gwynet. She's attending the Academy. And doing quite well, too. Osraed Bevol says she has a natural Gift.... You haven't told me your name."

"Oh! Ah. It's Terris. Terris-mac-Webber." He shuffled momentarily behind his long table, then circled it, coming to stand just across from her at the rack of green wool. "My Gram wove this roll. Smooth as velvet for all it's a double weave."

Taminy ran a hand over the thick fabric. It was as vivid to the touch as it was to the eye. That amazed her-not the cloth itself, but the sensation of touch. How different this world was from her world of water and spirit. Amazing, too, was her awareness of this boy-no, his awareness of her. The intensity of his regard prickled her face and made her skin flush.

"Daeges-eage, Terris," said a girl's voice from the doorway of the shop.

Terris jumped like a spooked cat and Taminy realized other eyes than his had tickled her senses. She turned. A trio of girls stood in the doorway. Iseabal-a-Nairnecirke was one of them. The other two, a vivid redhead and a small, darkling cailin with a froth of deep brown hair, Taminy didn't know. It was the redhead who'd spoken, and she now regarded Terris-mac-Webber as if he was a dog she had caught raiding the larder.

"Oh! Daeges-eage, Aine ... ah, Iseabal, Doireann." He glanced quickly at Taminy, his face reddening. "I ... was ..."

Before he could force another word from between his lips, Taminy rescued him from his discomfiture. "Yes, I will have some of this fine green twyla. Four yards, please and, ah...." She glanced at a neighboring bolt. "And two yards of the blue. And I'll need some softweave for leggings and sous-shirts."

"Oh. Over there." Terris motioned across the room to a table piled high with goods, then moved to measure Taminy's wool.

Taminy took Gwynet across the shop to inspect the softweave while the other girls, with the exception of Iseabal, moved to linger at Terris's cutting table. Iseabal gave them a glance, then followed Taminy and Gwynet.

She stood silently for a moment, fingering some softweave with careless hands. "I was looking for you, Taminy," she said finally. "I thought maybe you would go to that pool again today." A sideways glance through dark waves checked Taminy's face for welcome.

She put welcome into her smile, and saw it catch fire in Iseabal's eyes.

"Will you, do you think? Go to that place?"

"I thought we might, after our errands. You're welcome to come."

"Am I? Am I really? I didn't get in the way of your lessons last time? I was afraid I might have ...All my questions-"

"They were good questions." Taminy pulled out a length of gray softweave and glanced over at the cutting table where a flash-flushing Terris talked awkwardly with his two companions. "Do your friends fancy a trek to the woods?"

"Them?" Iseabal first seemed shocked at the idea, then admitted, "I suppose I hoped they might, though when I told Aine about your herbals she only wondered if you might have a poultice that would lift off her freckles. And Doireann, well, a trek in the woods would most certainly scuff her shoes and stain her skirts and riot her hair."

Taminy laughed and was immediately aware that the other girls had shifted their attention from blushing Terris to her and Iseabal.

"So," said Aine the Red, crossing the shop's rug-littered floor. "So, you're Taminy. I saw you at Tell Fest-well, the whole town did, didn't we? Imagine Terris's Gram thinking you were Meri-did-a-Lagan. All that white hair of yours-and, of course, you're so much thinner than Meri-did."

"I don't think you should call her that," said Iseabal, blushing. "It's unkind. She's-she's dead, after all."

And Gwynet, who had been watching the overhead exchange, piped, "No, she's not. She's with the Meri. Isn't she, Taminy?"

Taminy only smiled. This was not the time to argue or to shock or to make inveterate enemies. Enemies. Those would come all too easily in days ahead. Gathering up an armful of softweave, she moved past Aine to the cutting table. "She's where she needs to be."

"Oh, like as if you know," said the other girl, following her with appraising hazel eyes.

"Uh, how many yards?" stammered Terris. He caught up the softweave as if desperate to have something to do.

"Six of the gray and four of the heather, please."

"Taminy and I are going to the pool I told you about," said Iseabal. "Over on the Bebhinn, up Lagan way."

"Hunting for weeds?" asked Aine, and Doireann silently wrinkled her nose.

"Not weeds," said Gwynet from the midst of them. "Herbals. Taminy knows bookfuls about herbals."

"Weeds," said Aine. "Common weeds."

"Nothing in creation is common," Taminy said. "Everything has a place and a purpose. A weed can be a wonder in its rightful place."

"And I suppose you've herbals that can cure warts and make eyelashes grow?"

"Well, I know that sassafras purifies the blood and takes away the mooning pain. Skybell, crushed with rosemary and chamomile, makes the skin glow." She thought her own flesh gleamed as she said it; Aine's eyes told her she wasn't wrong.

"Is that true?" Doireann spoke for the first time, her dark gaze raking Taminy's face. "Can your herbs really change someone's complexion? That can't be ...Can it?"

"Herbs can help, of course. But it's not just what you put on the outside. It's what you put inside, as well. What you eat and drink. What you think and feel." She glanced pointedly at Aine's overly ruddy face.

"Nonsense," Aine said. "What I eat can't possibly affect my skin."

"Of course it can," persisted Taminy gently.