"Oh, Master Bevol," she said, "I haven't breathed in a hundred years!"

The image floated, static, the words echoing softly from the girl's parted lips while over one white shoulder, Wyth glimpsed a Face in the gleaming waves-a Face of holy flame with garnets for eyes. His senses blew past the already fading image of the strange cailin and collected themselves before that Face, clinging until nothing remained but translucent darkness, prowling in silent circles like a black cat seeking a resting place. And Wyth sat watching it, waiting for his soul to return from a journey it hadn't, perhaps, been ready to take.

Bevol leaned toward him across the circle. "What did you see?" the elder Osraed asked, eyes tight and watchful.

"A birth," said Wyth. "I believe I have seen a birth."

Bevol nodded. "Of more than you know."

Wyth at last made his eyes focus on the other's face.

"Then ..." Dare he put it into words? "Then Meredydd has become ... the Meri?"

Bevol smiled. "Essentially correct. She hosts the Meri's Spirit and gives substance to Her Essence."

"But this is what Osraed Ealad-hach has dreamed, is it not?"

"Yes."

"He believes it is death."

Again Bevol nodded. "It is that, too," he said.

He was utterly exhausted by the time he reached Arundel. Exhausted and overwhelmed by his new knowledge. There were still things he didn't understand; who the girl was that came out of the Sea as Meredydd entered it; how Ealad-hach could find so much to fear in the idea that a female might be Osraed; and how he had not recognized Meredydd in the Meri when he saw Her.

Dear God, when She kissed him!

What was he to do now, he puzzled. In light of all he knew, what must his next task be? She would tell him, of course. He knew that as surely as he knew he breathed. But his certitude was underpinned with white terror; given what he now knew, what would the touch of the Meri's spirit feel like when it next came over him?

It was darkening as Killian, in his last task as Wyth's Weard, drove the new Osraed out to his family estate. No longer bored, the younger boy was still agog with the events he had witnessed. He would return to his own family and regale his relations and friends with tales of how a great, gleaming creature plucked Wyth from the beach and attempted to devour him.

But he would have to give his tell soon, for every night of sleep would separate him further from the already corrupted memory. In a week he would remember the Pilgrimage as only marginally eventful and pray his would be more spectacular.

Deposited before Arundel Manor, Wyth stood and listened to the creak and rattle of the Nairne-bound carriage. He stood, staring at the house's brick facade as a moon peeked shyly over the eastern hills. Dim lights went on in several first floor windows, dashing his hopes that his mother might not be at home.

He inhaled deeply of the cool, fragrant air and followed Killian's progress across the Bridge to Lagan. His errant thought of Meredydd he withered where it bloomed, ears groping for the rush of the Halig-tyne. She crooned in sweet sibilance, pulling his thoughts away downstream to wash them.

Wyth stirred and considered picking up his pack and opening the door. But the door was already opening, he realized, and he stood, dumb, peering into the dark entry way.

"Who is it, please?" asked a familiar, scratchy voice, then, "Oh, but it's Master Wyth-oh!" And the manservant ran, leaving the door wide open.

Smiling, Wyth shouldered his pack and stepped inside, closing the heavy carved door behind him. The hall was dim, lit only by the wicks of two floor lamps on either side of the stair. The servants hadn't gotten to lighting the door lamps yet, nor any of the upstairs lights, it seemed. But the dark was soothing to Wyth. It was muted, peaceful. He desired peace and quiet above all things just now.

He was not to have it. He was at the center of the large entry when the servant reappeared from the direction of the dining chamber, followed closely by the Moireach Arundel.

"Wyth! Wyth, you're home! Dear God!" She slipped past the gawping servant and hurried to her son's side. Her eyes went at once to his forehead and read his success. She stopped, hands hovering halfway to her mouth, eyes huge and flowing with a slurry of swift-passing emotions. Wyth could not read any of them with external senses, yet knew them to be ambiguous.

Pride won out, and the Moireach waved at the staring manservant. "Lights, Adken! Lights! All must see my son's triumph!"

It was then that Wyth realized Adken was not alone in the dining room doorway. Silhouetted there were at least five other individuals who must have been dining with his mother. That lady was beside herself with excitement. And, as the wicks glow brightened the entry way, Wyth found himself surrounded by family and friends. He was overwhelmed once again.

Deluged in their expressions of delight and amazement. It took him a moment to realize that he was being overwhelmed by more than the mere expression of those things. Deep inside, a door had opened, allowing their emotions to walk through his soul.

Agape, he stood, fielding this one's awe and that one's astonishment that someone they knew could have possibly seen the Meri. His eldest sister's jealousy cut through all, tormenting him; her pledge-bond's amazement was tinged with disbelief. Neither of them, he realized, had expected him to come home an Osraed. As for his mother ...He looked at her beaming face with its glittering eyes and marveled at how pride and grief could dwell together behind that facade. He had won her an honor; he had lost his family an heir.

"Oh, do come join us, dear Wyth!" she gushed, tugging at his arm. "Do tell us all about it."

"Yes, indeed," agreed one of the male guests-the Eiric of Cinfhaolaidh. "It'd be a rare experience to hear of a Pilgrimage from the lips of the newly chosen! Was it near as magical as they say, or is that all myth?"

Wyth's sister, Brann, laughed brittlely. "Myth, I'd wager. What of it, Wyth? What's the Meri like?"

Gazing around at the circle of expectant faces, Wyth was torn. For several of his mother's guests this was a matter of faith, for others it was merely a matter of entertainment.

"Come Wyth," said his sister, her eyes over-bright. "Come, boast to us of your exploits along the Pilgrim's path."

Rousing from what must seem to all like a stupor, Wyth smiled at her, ignoring the acid in her voice. "I've nothing to boast of, Brann," he said. "But I would gladly answer your questions were I not so weary. I give the Pilgrim's Tell with Lealbhallain-mac-Mercer next Cirke-dag at Halig-liath."

"What? You'd make us wait? How terribly rude."

"I'm merely tired, Brann. Please, return to your supper. I crave rest more than food right now."

Brann, on her betrothed's arm, laughed and tossed black curls. "Yes, do sleep, Wyth. You look that ragged. Perhaps you'll be up for it tomorrow and can tell us all at breakfast. I suppose the rest of you will have to be content with seeing the Kiss." She bobbed her head toward the others, then drew her pledge-bond away, jealousy passing as she began to consider what advantage might come to the sister of an Osraed.

The other guests followed.

Wyth felt his spirit sag, pulling his shoulders and the corners of his wide mouth down with it.

"Well." The Moireach, his mother, still stood beside him. "I am disappointed that you couldn't be persuaded to give a special Tell to our dear friends. But I suppose if you're that tired ..." She shrugged, her eyes searching his face with an odd mixture of hope and reproach.

"Thank you, for being so understanding, mother. I'll no doubt see you in the morning." And by then I'll have decided how much not to tell you.

Hefting his pack, he started for the stairs, wondering at how heavy it suddenly seemed.

Adken was at his side in an instant. "Do let me carry that for you, Master. Are you hungry? Shall I bring you up a tray? I'd be most happy if you'd allow me that. Oh, and some hot tea. That'll be wanted, I'm sure. Nothing like hot tea to soothe the wearies. Oh, it's good to see you, Master, and none too soon. We knew you'd make it this time, the wife and I. Surely we did. Said some special prayers at Cirke, too. Oh, it's a great day, it is. A great day! Those who didn't believe, sir, they'll swallow a bitter pill, indeed."

A great day, thought Wyth, as Adken prattled on about their faith in him. It was a real faith, the new Osraed marveled. He could put out mental fingers and touch it, hold it, feel the strength and weight of it. A great day, yes. But still, a day he wished, desperately, would end.

Alone in his room, he lit a candle and sat on the bed to meditate. He did not think about how different he felt from the last time he'd sat in this room. He did not think about how different his homecoming had been from the way he'd imagined it.

He did not ponder his time with Osraed Bevol in the dark aislinn chamber. Instead, he stared at the dancing flame and tried to meditate upon the Meri. In a moment he was all chagrin. How could he meditate upon Her without thinking about Her, without feeling about Her what he now felt. Love. Love entangled with love. He loved the Meri and he loved Meredydd, who had become the Meri. And now they refused to be separated. They could not be separated. Or, if they could, he did not know how. He thought of Her and felt the rise of more than spiritual devotion.

No wonder the gleaming face had seemed familiar. My God, how could he have not known who faced him in that trembling water?

How could he have kissed her lips-Her lips!-and not known at once, that She was Meredydd? The lover and the Beloved have become one in Thee. What a unique truth that verse now held for one Wyth Arundel. It was his last conscious thought before he slept, falling over into the down mattress and giving up his exhaustion in prayer as he gave up prayer in exhaustion.

He woke some hours later, feeling as if someone had summoned him to consciousness. The candle had burned nearly in half. He extinguished it entirely. He felt it then, as he settled himself into the warm, close darkness. He felt the tears of the woman in the suite of rooms above. Tears, not of thanks-giving, nor of motherly loss, nor of swelling pride. There were selfish tears, tinted red by a sense of martyrdom. How great was her sacrifice, how ungrateful his pursuit of the spiritual, when she had struggled to give him everything material.

Sadness brushed over him like a veil of spider-silk-clinging, but lightly-and he marveled with a strange, detached awe. How had he lived in this house for eighteen years and never known how much bitterness it contained?

CHAPTER 4.

Fire is not seen in wood, yet by some power it comes to light as fire.

In such a way the Spirit of the Universe and in man is revealed by the power of Its Word.

- Prayers and Meditations of Osraed Ochan The breeze was from the high passes of the Gyldan-baenn this evening, and carried in its perfect cool a tang of pine and heath. Summer waned quickly, evening by evening, welcoming the long autumn. Wyth welcomed it too, as part of the experience he was about to embrace. Standing upon the ageless battlements of Halig-liath, he inhaled the fragrances that eddied up from the great courtyard below-smells of baps baked only minutes ago and trundled up the road from Nairne, and sweet porridges and stews, and meats turning slowly over pits of blazing rock. There were sounds to be drunk, as well, of laughter, song, the tuning of pipes, the shouts of neighbor to neighbor from stall to stall.

Halig-liath had sprouted this day a great village bazaar; ringed round in the shadow of the massive walls were the booths and wagons of Nairne's merchants, craftsmen and artisans, all preparing to take part in the celebration of the Pilgrim's Tell. For when the ceremonials were over and the rituals fulfilled, the celebrants would flood the courtyard to eat and drink, dance and sing and tell stories through the night.

Did I ever believe this day would be mine? Wyth caressed the horizon with his eyes, drinking in the deep greens, the winy reds and violets, growing intoxicated and flushed.

He jumped when someone tapped his arm. A small third year Prentice he recognized from his Dream Tell class bobbed awfully at his elbow, eyes drawn to his forehead. The boy blinked repeatedly, ducking his head in reverence.

"Osraed Wyth, it's time," he said. "The pipers are ready and your robes are laid out."

Wyth smiled and nodded, giving the worn parapet a loving pat. Ruanaidhe's Leap they called this spot. It was a point of tragic history, but Wyth could not find it in himself to feel tragic. Tonight, his own history would be forever woven into the stones of Halig-liath.

He followed the Prentice down from the wall and back across the cobbled yard, wending behind kiosks and wagons to the Academy's rounded central structure. Glowing orbs lit the hallways with warm gilded light; musicians gathered in noisy knots here and there and gave him glances eloquent with amazement.

They're more excited than I am, he thought, and wondered at that. He had in the last hours welcomed into himself a great and alien contentment. He savored it, yet knew it to be momentary. He wondered if it would last the night.

Osraed Calach and Lealbhallain (Osraed Lealbhallain, by the Kiss!) awaited him in a small annex to Halig-liath's sanctum. One paced, the other smiled contentedly.

"Ah, there you are, Wyth!" Calach's smile expanded to embrace him in warm welcome, while his Prentice-companion scurried to fetch his robe. Like Leal's, it was a deep, ruddy gold.

Beautiful, he thought. Beautiful, but faded-looking compared to- "Will this night never end?" Lealbhallain ceased his pacing and stood, worrying his prayer chain, eyes on a window of frosted and colored glass through which he could see nothing but patterns of fitful light.

Calach laughed. "Dear boy, it's barely begun."

"Why beg it end?" asked Wyth, shrugging into his robe. "Isn't this the night of nights? Isn't this to be savored? Remembered?"

Leal's hands flung upward, flying from his voluminous sleeves like flushed birds. "It's only a doorway, Osraed Wyth. A passing point." He speared his fellow Chosen with zealous eyes. "I long to be through the door, past the point, on my way to Creiddylad."

"Ah, yes." Calach nodded approvingly, bustling to straighten Wyth's white stole and arrange the links of his prayer chain upon it. "An arduous mission you have drawn, Leal, if I read news from Creiddylad right. I admire your zeal for it."

"It's not zeal," said Leal oddly, turning the pendant crystal of his chain in one hand. He glanced back at the window. "It's fear."

Calach made a quick and nearly indiscernible gesture to the attending Prentice to take up his slate and bluestick. "Fear of what?" he asked, while Wyth could only stand idly by, his mouth open. A sudden, prickling awareness told him another Presence had slipped into the room; Lealbhallain was touching the Meri.

"Disintegration," Leal answered then added, "The hand that caresses keeps what it holds; the hand that seizes, crushes what it hopes to mold."

They waited silently, all of them, while the Prentice's bluestick skittered over its slate, recording Leal's words.

Leal shook himself and stared full into Wyth's face. Amazement. The smile started tentatively and spread to his entire body, freckle by freckle.

Only puppies smile so, thought Wyth, then chided himself for the inane thought.

Before he knew what was happening, they were in the hall again and stepping in measured time to the courtyard.

Awash in a swirl of sights and sounds and smells she'd never before experienced, Gwynet clung to Taminy's hand and tried to drink everything in. When she thought her eyes could get no wider and her senses could not absorb one more fragrance or sound, the bells of Halig-liath began to peal and sing in a great, iron-throated chorus.

She cried out, but the sound of her small voice was lost as it left her lips, swallowed in the deep, bright music. The air shivered with it, and all around her, people began to hurry to places about the courtyard's vast, open center.

Taminy tugged at her hand and bent to peer down into her flushed face, her own all but concealed by the cowl of her shawl and the bright scarf tied over her forehead. "Shall we find a place to watch, Gwyn?" she asked and Gwynet could only nod.

The place Taminy chose was away from the pressing throng of villagers, halfway up a worn flight of stone steps that mounted to the walk along the inside of the high outer wall. From this vantage point, Gwynet's eyes could scoop up their share of wonders.

The bells ceased their lusty duan now, and a new, alien sound rose in its wake. From a stone arch across the yard and halfway down Halig-liath's massive flank, pipers appeared, two abreast, stepping in time to the deep, hollow rhythm of unseen drums.

Gwynet all but held her breath as piper after piper emerged from the archway to parade down the center of the court. They were escorted, in their turn, by other musicians, playing fiddle, drum and pat-a-pat, rib-stick and tambourine.

Gwynet had never in her life heard such a sound. It was like the keening of wind in the tall pines. It was like the march of thunder across the hills and the music of rain on leaf and stone. And the melody was at once joyful and sad and spritely and grand.

It took her a moment to realize the tune was playing closer at hand, as well. She glanced up at Taminy, who sang along in a clear voice, adding words to the music, her eyes glinting from the shadow of her cowl.

Caught in this, the older girl lowered her eyes and laughed. "I once was certain as certain could be that they'd play this song for me when I came home from the Sea. That I'd step to the piper's duan with the Meri's Kiss on my brow. How strange life is." She laughed again and stroked Gwynet's hair. "Listen well, Gwynet-a-Gled. That may be your tune someday, and your dance."

Her hand measured the two long rows of musicians that now formed a euphonious avenue down the center of the Great Court, ending before the broad steps that mounted to the Osraed Gallery.

Gwynet turned her eyes to that path and imagined that what Taminy said might be true-that she might someday be accepted by the Meri. She took the idea into her heart. Taminy had come from the Meri's Sea, she reasoned. Taminy must possess the Meri's wisdom. She didn't understand all she'd heard of Eibhilin Beings and transformations or all she'd seen on a beach not that long ago, but she did understand that Taminy-a-Cuinn was like no one else in the worlds of Blaec-del or Nairne.

She watched and listened with fascination as the pipers and drummers and fiddlers faced each other down the court and began a new melody. From the stone arch came Prentices carrying glowing orbs of liquid flame mounted on tall, finely carved poles. There were six of them, and in their midst were the new Osraed-Wyth, the Tall and Spare; Lealbhallain, the Small and Freckled. The two walked together, down the avenue of song, in step with their escort. At the end of their walk, they mounted to the Osraed Gallery and were greeted by the men who had been their masters and were now their peers.

The crowd below Gwynet's perch burst into noisy celebration. Grown men capered like boys; old women twirled like maidens on a dancing green, their bright skirts and panel coats sailing about them on the air. Osraed Bevol took some time to quiet them; Gwynet thought he must be enjoying the sight of all those souls acting out childways, swarmed by bright light. But at last they did hush, their attention soaring to the glowing Gallery where Osraed, new and old, collected.

Now Gwynet's ears were stormed by silence, for every man, woman, child and babe within the hallowed walls hushed to stone stillness. It seemed they must even have ceased to breathe and so did Gwynet.

"At dawn," the Osraed Bevol said, and his voice rang clear as the bells, "we walked with the Spirit of the Universe."

All heard the words, even Gwynet high on her stair. The drummers punctuated them with a beat that rolled off the stone walls like a single clap of thunder. The silence after shivered in the air.

Again, Bevol spoke. "We heard the Words of Creation from the Spirit's own Mouth and we listened and understood."

Again, the drums sounded.

"The Spirit also listened. It heard the desire of its creation and the wants of man and woman, and It gave them their desire."