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  His face flared crimson in understanding. Then a different thought occurred to him. He rummaged in the pouch again, and pulled out another coin, copper this time. It was small and oddly shaped, with thirteen sides, and he opened her hand and put it in. Then he pulled out another just like it.

  “As far as I know, there are only two of these in all the world. They have no real value other than that, but they’re very special to me. I can’t think of anyone better to give one to.”

  She examined the coin for a moment; then she smiled and drew him close. “Thank you, Sam; I’ll treasure it. Now, we better get going.”

  He helped her stand and brushed the loose grass off the back of her velvet dress. “I wish I had a better gift for you.” They began to walk down the hill leading to the village and the meeting hall.

  “You couldn’t give me a better gift than what you’ve given me tonight. You came here from far away in answer to my wish. Who could ask for more than that?”

  He put his arm around her. “But it’s your birthday.”

  “Do you really want to give me something special?”

  “More than anything.”

  She smiled, and slid out from under his arm, taking his hand instead. “Tell me about the places you’ve been, the wonderful things that you’ve seen,” she said, her eyes gleaming in excitement. “Talk to me about where we will go, what we will see someday.”

  “Well, since you’ve never seen the ocean, we could begin with the tall ships that will carry us across the wide Central Sea.”

  He told her of the masts and the riggings and the woven net beds called hammocks that the sailors slept in, of the great port of Kesel Tai, where ships from around the world sought the trade and wisdom of the Sea Mages. He told her of Port Fallon on the shores of his own lands, where a great lighthouse stood a hundred feet tall, illuminating the way for lost mariners. And lastly he told her of the Lirin port of Tallono, whose exposed bay had been turned from an open mooring to a sheltering harbor with the aid of a woman who held the wisdom and power of dragons.

  Emily listened in rapt excitement, drinking in his words. She broke loose from her reverie long enough to show him her family’s farm. It was the large one he had seen from the summit of the first hill. Warm carriage lights burned out in front of the pasture gate in welcome.

  There was so much Gwydion would have told her—of the river so cold and wide in some places that its opposite bank could barely be seen through the heavy morning mist, the river that led up to the Lands of the Gorllewinolo Lirin, where she could meet many of her mother’s people, and even as half-caste she would be welcomed.

  He would have told her of the Oracle of Yarim, with its mad prophetess, and of the great city of Sepulvarta, where the priests held their temples and the people were ruled by the Patriarch. And he most certainly would have told her of the Great White Tree, but before he could they were back in the village, approaching the entrance of the meeting hall. He promised himself, as their steps slowed, that one day he would show her all the things he knew she wanted to see.

  When they came to the place he had found her hiding, she turned quickly to him as a thought occurred to her. “Do we have a patronymic? A family name?”

  Gwydion felt a shiver of delight pass through him at the thought of her sharing it, but was at a loss to explain the nomenclature to her. “Yes, sort of. It’s complicated. And my name is different as well. You see, the way—”

  “Emmy, there you are! Where the blazes have you been? Justin is here, and he’s looking everywhere for you, as are a few other people.” Ben’s voice was filled with relief as well as anger.

  Emily ignored the question, pulling Gwydion over to where her brother stood. “Hello, Ben. Did you enjoy the dance? This is Sam; Sam, this is my brother Ben.”

  Gwydion put out his hand, and Ben looked at him for a second, shifting his focus. He shook Gwydion’s hand, then turned to Emily again. “You’re going to catch it when Father finds out.”

  “Finds out what?”

  “That you didn’t go to the dance.”

  “I most certainly did go to the dance, and I had a wonderful time.”

  Ben was turning red with annoyance. “You didn’t dance once, Emmy. There are an awful lot of upset fellows in there.”

  Emily started to laugh. “I did so dance, just not inside. You even saw me. Let it go, Ben; I had a lovely evening.”

  “Emmy?” The new voice was deeper, and Gwydion turned to see a much older youth hurrying toward them. He also had dark hair, and he was a head taller than Emily. She ran to meet him and he lifted her off the ground in a wide embrace.

  “Happy Birthday, Ugly,” he said affectionately, kissing her cheek. “Did you have fun? Was the dance nice?”

  “The best ever,” she answered, grinning. She introduced her oldest brother, Justin, to Gwydion as well, and he walked with them to the wagon Justin had brought to drive her home in.

  As her brothers hitched the horses, Emily turned to him again. “Thank you, Sam,” she said softly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “At five on the nose. Happy birthday, Emily. I’ll be thinking about you every moment until I see you again.”

  She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and ran to the wagon. Pain welled up inside him; he had no idea how much truth was in the last words she heard from his lips.

  “I love you,” he called after her as the horses began to pull away. She put her hand to her ear, signifying she hadn’t heard him. He watched the wagon rumble off into the darkness, Emily waving until she was out of sight.

  The next morning Gwydion rose before dawn with the other farmhands, preparing to work as the other men did, bare-chested in the summer heat. He wrapped his waterskin and dagger, along with his shirt, in his cloak and stowed it beneath the cot he had slept on.

  As he was putting it away he noticed three small, dark spots on the lining of the cloak. He pulled it back out and looked at it again; they were tiny bloodstains.

  Gwydion checked his back to see if he had been injured without his knowledge, but could find nothing. He stuffed it beneath the cot again and set to work on the day’s chores. As a new hand he was given some of the lighter, but dirty, tasks, and he watched in dismay the inevitable and increasing soil on his trousers.

  When the farmhands took a break for breakfast at sunrise he went out to the pastureland, looking for flowers to give her. He spied a patch of wild columbines growing amid clouds of nymph’s hair and decided they would be perfect flowers for Emily’s birthday bouquet. Then he went to the well and washed his pants clean with a rag, hoping to remain somewhat presentable. It would not do to meet her father and ask for her hand smelling like the inside of a barn, although many years later it occurred to him that the scent would not have been unfamiliar to the man.

  In the hope that breakfast or scraps from it might still be available, he headed toward the farmhouse. The heat of the morning made his head swim a little, and as he approached the porch he felt dizzier than he ever remembered feeling before.

  Meridion had stopped the frame. He checked the tools once more, then gently pried the image loose from the delicate thread. It stuck for a moment, and he smiled in amusement; it was almost as if the boy’s force of will were holding it fast. Carefully he slid the first strand forward to the exact place from which he had removed the piece, and replaced it, wiping the strand to cement it back in place. Then he looked through the lens again.

  Gwydion appeared in midstep on his way down the forest road. Everything was exactly as it had been on that achingly fresh morning, everything except his memory.

  He whirled around on the path. The sun was rising in the sky, as before; the birds were calling to each other in trees that glistened in its light. He felt a faint chill as the warm wind blew across his naked chest. Otherwise all things were as they had been.

  Panic coursed through him, and his heart began to pound as he darted wildly up the path, then back, trying to deny where he now was. His hands clut
ched at the air, trying to reach back to the other reality, but his efforts only resulted in stirring the wind around him and raising a bit of dust from the road.

  His stomach roiled in agony at the thoughts that were pounding in his head: had he been hallucinating? Was he going insane? The prospect that it had not been real was better than the belief that it was, but he knew in his heart that the events had happened. He never in his wildest imagination could have made up something as wonderful as Emily.

  Emily. The implications threw a cold, gangrenous feeling into his stomach and legs. Where was she? What had happened to her? He remembered his warning to her about being separated, and winced in anguish at her look of confusion that had followed it. Did she understand him, understand the urgency of his admonition? Had she survived?

  He felt for the items he had brought with him, but they weren’t there; the waterskin and dagger, his shirt and cloak. His chest tightened at the thought of the cloak, rolled around his gear under the cot, and he went cold as the realization hit him of what the bloodstains were. They had made love on it, and the blood must have been Emily’s, the sign of the loss of their mutual virginity, the consummation of what felt like a marriage.

  Despair began to consume him as he searched his pockets, and then he felt a sense of calm descend. He reached deeper and pulled forth his pouch, the one possession he hadn’t left in the shed.

  With shaking hands he pulled open the drawstring and felt carefully inside it. A smile touched the corner of his mouth when his fingers brushed it, hidden at first in the corner of the bag. Carefully he drew the tiny object out; it was the button she had given him the night before. Proof of his sanity, proof that his memories were not hallucinations.

  He sighed deeply as immeasurable sadness overwhelmed him. He thought of the cloak, and the other possessions, and the shed, and the farm, all reduced centuries before to cinders, only to be scattered over the ocean on the other side of the world where the Island had its grave. The thought that her ashes blew about in the fair sea wind as well was not to be contemplated; Gwydion knew that would be enough to make the possibility of his insanity real.

  His father would know what to do. She surely had lived, and had found the leaders of the Cymrian refugees he had told her about in the Patchworks. She must have come on one of the great ships. His heart rose in the hope that she had, for it would have been her first opportunity to sail the ocean she wanted so desperately to see.

  All of the other terrible possibilities—that she had been killed in the war, that she had survived the war but had died before the Cymrians left, that she had boarded one of the ships but hadn’t survived the voyage that had taken the lives of so many, that she had landed but had died since—all were relegated to an unopened room in his mind. First he had to go home and talk with his father. His father would know how to find her.

  Gwydion turned and started for home. The day had lost its shine; to his eyes, if no others, dark and foreboding clouds were rolling in. He took five steps before the loss overwhelmed him and he fell to the ground, lying facedown in the road as he had the day before. A tremendous, racking sob tore from his throat, a scream of pain that frightened the wildlife for miles around. And then he bent his head over the dust of the path and wept.

  On the morning of her birthday Emily took advantage of the offer to be excused from her chores and slept in past sunrise. Her dreams were sweet, if intense, and she was deep in the middle of a particularly poignant one when she felt, rather than heard, a high, heartrending cry.

  Nooooooooooo.

  She bolted upright in bed, trembling. The sunlight was pouring through the curtains and the birds were singing; it was a perfectly beautiful day. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms to shake off the feeling of deep fear that had settled on her like a cold mist.

  The memory of Sam and the night before flooded back into her cheeks, and the bad feelings vanished like a dream. She leapt from her bed, singing, and waltzed across the room in her white muslin nightgown, counting the moments until she would see him again.

  The day dragged by. Emily busied herself by helping her mother make the supper preparations, sharing as much of the story as she was willing to. As evening came she grew more and more excited, until her father remarked that if she grew any happier he could light the carriage path with her.

  As the appointed time for his arrival came and went, Emily stood at the window in her best white blouse and a pink broadcloth skirt, watching intensely. The supper hour came and went as well, leaving the lovingly prepared repast cold and uninviting by the time her mother gently drew her away from the window and made her eat. It was a quiet, sad affair with little talking; the look in Emily’s eyes swallowed any hope for cheerful conversation.

  After supper her brothers and parents gave her gifts, which she smiled on and praised as best she could, even though her heart wasn’t in it. As the night came and deepened she went back to the window again, certain in her belief that he would come eventually.

  Finally, long past midnight, her father took her gently by the arm and suggested she needed her sleep. Emily nodded and headed numbly for the stairs. As she started to climb she looked back at her parents, and was brought out of her trance momentarily by the sadness on their faces. She knew they ached for her, and she couldn’t stand the thought.

  She gave them both as bright a smile as she could muster, and made her voice sound confident.

  “Don’t worry, Father,” she said. “There will be lots of other boys in the lottery I can fall in love with.” She watched as they both drew sighs of relief, and her mother’s eyes lost their worried look.

  “That’s right, honey; there certainly will be.”

  She blew them both a kiss as she ascended the stairs. She spoke the rest of the thought to herself.

  “But I never will.”

  Years later, after the same amount of time of fruitless search, Emily came across MacQuieth, one of the people the boy had mentioned to her that night in the Patchworks. It was completely by accident, on the streets of an immense city, and though he was a warrior of great renown, and she was no one, she summoned her courage and asked him about the boy. MacQuieth initially was annoyed, then kinder when he saw the look of intense hope in her eyes, a look that spoke of a soul that was clutching the last vestige of belief in life.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” he said, wincing as he watched her face absorb his words. “But I never saw anyone like that, nor have I ever heard of anyone by those names.” And the warrior stood, his attention successfully diverted from his task for perhaps the first time ever, watching as she walked away and into anonymity, her shoulders lower than a moment before. MacQuieth was not prescient, but even he knew he was watching a human soul as the life went out of it, blending with the throng of the great unwashed, beginning the descent into the meaningless existence of those who only marked the days until death came for them.

  Gwydion waited for the Seer’s answer as patiently as he could, but his desperation and pain would have been obvious to anyone. That the Seer was also his grandmother could only help, he reasoned.

  Anwyn studied his face, a look of profound curiosity in her searing blue eyes, the color of which was more intense even than Gwydion’s. How her grandson had managed to elude the stoic nature that was inbred in the family was of great interest to her. Though the realm that was her gift to see into was the Past, she felt enough of the Future to know that one day Gwydion would be a powerful man, as was each person in the family, and that he had more potential than any of the others to bring the line into its dynastic glory again. That made him a valuable asset to control.

  My soulmate, he had insisted, his voice breaking. I’m certain of it, Grandmother. Please. The liquid that glinted in his eyes obviously came from a wellspring deep within him; the Eye-Clear would have worn off long before he had thought to come to her for answers. Anwyn could not see even a residual trace of it, but was certain of its use nonetheless.

  Who had used it on
him was another matter; the formula for the elixir had gone to the depths of the sea with Serendair a thousand years before. And though she had a partial answer to his question, some of the events Gwydion described—the stinging eyes, the transportation across Time itself—were hidden from her sight into the Past. Anwyn shook off the disturbing thought and focused on her trembling grandson once again.

  He had climbed at great risk to see her, braving the biting wind that screamed with fury around and within the rockwalls of her cavernous castle, high in the darkest of the isolated crags of the pale northern mountains. His hands still bled from where he had gripped the rocks in his cold ascent to her lair. He clearly had been quite driven to see her and she so rarely had visitors, especially these days. Even in his preoccupation and despair it was good to have company again, especially the company of one who could be of use to her someday.

  She thought about his question, and a distant look came over her face as she realized the implications of what she had to say to him. It would take careful thought to deliver this news appropriately. She took his hands in hers and began to wrap his bloodied knuckles with a soft cloth. Her smile was almost sad as she spoke.

  “She did not land—she did not come. I am sorry, child. She did not set foot in these lands, nor in Manosse. If she was Lirin, the stars of this land would know her had she been anywhere beneath them, and they do not. She went to no other land. And she was not among those to leave on the ships from the Island before its destruction.”

  “Are you certain? There must be a mistake. Please, Grandmother, look again. Are you sure she didn’t go off course with the Second Fleet?”

  Anwyn hid her smile, and went back to the altar where the tarnished spyglass lay. It was the second most ancient artifact in the land, the scrying instrument that her father had used to behold this land for the first time. She picked it up and held it for a moment, feeling the warmth of its power. Then she walked to the great window that faced the sea a thousand miles away, and put the glass to her eye once again. She watched for a long time, then lowered the spyglass, turning back to her anxious grandson once more.