Rhapsody: Child of Blood

The pain subsided as quickly as it had come. Gwydion spat out the dust from the road and rolled onto his back, allowing himself a deep groan. He glanced at the sky above him and was instantly aware of the shift not only in location but in time of day. A moment ago it had been early morning, and now it was afternoon, winding toward evening. That he had been removed from where he had been was clear to him; he had no idea where he was.

Gwydion had been blessed with a pragmatic nature, and after a moment of adjusting to the new surroundings he stood and began calculating what to do next. How or why this had happened to him was not an issue for the moment.

The air of this place was thinner than the air of home, and Gwydion knew it would take some time for him to acclimate to it. Glancing around, he spied a small copse of trees a short jog away, and he hastily made for it.

Upon reaching the shelter he sank to the ground and began to inhale in short, shallow breaths, slowing and expanding each one until his lungs began to assimilate, shielding his watering eyes to give them a chance to adjust. Then he felt for the items he had brought with him on his way to town: his dagger and pouch were still there, as well as his waterskin and the apple. He took a quick drink. As he was capping the skin he felt faint vibrations in the ground below him. A cart, or something like it, must be approaching.

Gwydion sank lower to the ground as the ever-thickening dust cloud signaled the arrival of the group. He could see three men walking beside the cart, which was pulled by two oxen with a calf following along behind. It was laden with barrels of grain and loose straw, and a fourth man was driving it. The dress of the men was unfamiliar to him, although it was apparent that they were peasants, probably farmers.

Gwydion listened as carefully as he could over the rumbling din of the cart’s wheels. His eyes throbbed slightly and then were drawn to the farmers’ lips, strangely accentuated in the haze that filled his view. Suddenly his vision became intensely clear; it was if he could see the words as they were formed in the men’s mouths, and could hear them as if they were being spoken directly into his ear. When he recognized the language pattern, his head began to spin.

They were speaking Old Cymrian. It isn’t possible, he thought. Old Cymrian was essentially a dead language, used rarely in the holy-day ceremonies of religions other than his own, or as a vanity language among those of Cymrian lineage. But it was being spoken here, between peasants, as common vernacular on an average day in farmlands. It wasn’t possible, unless... Gwydion shuddered. Serendair, the Cymrian homeland, had been gone for more than a thousand years now, vanished into the sea in the cataclysm that swallowed the Island and some of its neighbors in volcanic fire.

His ancestors had come from there, as had those of a few of his friends, but by and large the refugees of that land were a dispersed people, the casualties of wars they visited upon the lands of their hosts. Could there still be an untouched pocket of them here, wherever he was, living as they had thirteen centuries before?

As the cart and its accompanying dust cloud rumbled out of sight, Gwydion’s head emerged from the patch of trees and brush to watch it go. He saw it make a laborious climb up a graded hill to the west and disappear over the summit. He waited until he knew that he could reach the top of the hill with them in sight while remaining unseen, checked to be sure there was no one else on the road, and then made for the summit himself.

The countryside was hilly, and when he got to the top he paused a moment to take in the sight of the late-afternoon sun favoring certain pastures with blankets of gold. This rolling land was beautiful, and he knew he had never been through these parts before, or he would have remembered it. It was verdant in the heat of summer, the green earth filling the air with the rich scent of life.

The farmlands stretched out as far as he could see in an endless expanse of field and meadow dotted with trees but no real forests. There was no sign of any major waterway either, except for small streams that crossed the pastures, and the wind held no scent of the sea.

Gwydion had no time to wonder where he was; the light was beginning to leave the sky, and the cart was almost out of sight. Its destination was probably the small village he could see past the next valley. Between here and there were several small farms and one large one. He decided to stop at the first small farm and see if he might find lodging and, with any luck, answers.

Gwydion removed the gold crest ring from his hand and tucked it quickly into his pouch. He took one last look around the hilly vista, and drew in a deep breath. His lungs had gotten used to the air here; there was a sweetness to it, mixed with the scent of pastureland and barns, a richness that spoke of a happiness he had never known in his short life.

A sense of calm overtook him. There was no time to wonder how he had gotten here, and no need. Whatever the reason, he was here now, and he meant to make an adventure of it. He took off in a dead run for the farmhouse at the dip in the road, where candlelight was just beginning to shine in the windows.

A number of men were finishing the day’s chores when he reached the first small farm, bringing the plows and animals back into the barn and making ready for the night. The sunset was a brilliant one, and it bathed the farmhouse and the surrounding pens with gentle streaks of crimson and pink.

The farmhands were laughing and joking; there was a festive mood in the air for the end of such a long day. Gwydion located the man he thought was the farmer. He was distinctly older than the others, with a shock of silver hair crowning a body still strong and muscular, and he directed the others with a soft voice that belied his great height.

Gwydion moved to the end of the carriage path next to the house, hoping to catch the attention of the farmer without seeming threatening. He stood there for a moment, but the men were hurrying to be finished and didn’t see him.

“Partch!” A woman’s voice called out over his head, and Gwydion turned around. An older woman, most likely the farmer’s wife, was standing under the eaves of the house, pointing at him, and calling to the tall man. “Looks like you’ve got a new hand.” She smiled at Gwydion, and he returned her grin. This was easier than he had thought.

The farmer gave the reins of the last of the horses to another of the men and came over, brushing his hands on his shirt. “Hello there, Sam,” he said, offering his hand to Gwydion. “Looking for work?”

“Yes, sir,” Gwydion answered, shaking hands. He hoped his pronunciation was correct. That the language was not his mother tongue was instantly apparent to the farmer, who slowed his words in an effort to be more easily understood. He gestured to one of the men, who came over, wiping his hands on a rag.

“Asa, show Sam here the shed. You can get settled; I’m afraid you missed supper, boy. But the foreharvest dance is in town tonight, and these young fellas are goin’. Why don’t you ride along? There’s bound to be food there if you’re hungry.”

The woman clucked at her husband. “We have scraps he can have now, Partch. Here, young man, come with me.” She turned and went into the farmhouse.

Gwydion followed her, taking in the sight with amazement.

The walls were stone with a wood interior, and the furniture was simple but well crafted; it bore the hallmarks of Cymrian artistry. The spindles on the chairs and staircases were turned in the exact manner of the railings on the altar of the basilica in Sepulvarta, the holy city of his homeland, the tables fashioned similarly to ones he had seen in the Great Hall in Tyrian.

“Here you are, dear,” she said, handing him a plate of leftovers. “Why don’t you take this with you out to the shed and clean up a bit? The foreharvest dance is a big thing in these parts—do they have one where you come from?”

Gwydion accepted the plate with a smile. “No, ma’am,” he said respectfully.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll enjoy it; it’s the last dance before the marriage lottery, so you best have fun while you can.” She winked at him, then set about finishing her work.

“Marriage lottery?”

“You don’t have one at home?”

“No,” said Gwydion, following her to the door. She swung it open for him and walked back toward the two men, who were washing with the others at the well.

“You must not come from a farm community, then.”

“No, ma’am,” said Gwydion. He thought of the place he lived and hid his smile.

“Well, you better get ready. It looks like the others are almost ready to leave.”

“Thank you,” Gwydion said to her gratefully. He took a scrap of the bread and ate it hurriedly, then followed Asa to the shed where the hired hands slept.

Gwydion leapt from the wagon as soon as it came to a stop. The ride had been rocky, but pleasant, and the farmhands agreeable, if not talkative. He had sensed a reserve from the beginning, and he wasn’t sure if they were distant because he was unfamiliar or because of his mixed bloodline. Without exception the men were human, as were the farmer and his wife and everyone else he had seen thus far. The pure, homogeneous makeup of this place was so unlike the rest of the world, where half bloods dominated.

The village was ablaze with light, lanterns set on barrels and strung in trees, making for a festive mood. The community was obviously not a wealthy one, but the farms seemed substantial and the people reasonably fed and clothed for the most part.

Noticeable was an absolute lack of luxury, and Gwydion’s eyes took in the details of decoration that had been fashioned out of simplicity—fresh-cut boughs of evergreen trees and fragrant flowers festooned the main hall that apparently served the community as house of worship, meeting place, grange, and school. Long tables laden with baked goods and harvest foods were set to the sides of the large open room with a dirt floor, and muslin love knots were tacked everywhere.

Despite being used to a far more wealthy and sophisticated life, Gwydion found himself taking in the homespun celebration with delight. There was a simplicity here that felt easy on his shoulders; it stood in marked contrast to the dull and ponderous ceremonies of festivity he was used to.

Excitement was starting to fill the air as people began to arrive, young women in pale-colored broadcloth dresses, young men in clean muslin shirts. There was a musician with a stringed instrument he didn’t recognize and two others with minarellos, sometimes called groan-boxes back home. They were dragging barrels over to a place behind the food table. The village was making ready to celebrate the upcoming harvest, both of crops and of marriageable young people.

As the room started to fill, Gwydion began to sense that he was not going unnoticed. More than once a group of young women passed in front of him, looking him up and down, then whispering to each other in excitement and young laughter. This made him quite uncomfortable, but it was momentary; the group would disperse quickly or move on, to be joined by others or by some of the young men. He gauged the girls to be about his age, fourteen or so, while the boys seemed four or five years older, although there were a few that were younger. Gwydion went to the refreshment table and was encouraged by an older woman to help himself, which he did gladly. No one asked him who he was, despite notice being taken that he was not local. Many others were apparently here from outside the village as well. When addressed by the villagers, an unknown young man was generally referred to as Sam or Jack; now he understood the farmer’s greeting earlier.

An older man came into the room carrying a large wooden box, and a swirl of excitement rose up from the crowd. He made his way to the table and the woman behind it began clearing an empty spot for the contents of the box, which turned out to be a large number of small parchment sheets and several inkpots with quills and writing reeds.

Here the crowd began to separate by gender, with the young women continuing to mill about while the men hurried to the table, searching through the papers for specific ones, and, upon finding what they sought, scribbling on them with the quills. Gwydion was familiar with the concept of dance cards, and it seemed to him that perhaps that was what these were. He decided that this would be a good time to get some air.

The night had come while he was inside, and now the sky was totally dark. The lanterns and candles illuminated the area, and people continued to arrive, amid laughter and arguments and other sounds of excitement. They jostled past Gwydion as if he weren’t there.

He was aware as he watched them of the seriousness of this festive ritual. Despite the light mood there was an undertone of solemnity, of portent, that was palpable. In a community such as this, mating and the propagation of families was essential to its survival.

Gwydion left the area around the meeting hall, looking to find a dark place where the stars were visible. He was well versed in astronomy, and suspected that he would be able to discern where he was once he got a clear look at the night sky.

The lantern-light played havoc with the visibility, and he needed to get a good ways away before he was able to see anything. When he finally could, it didn’t help much. He didn’t recognize any of the constellations, or even a single star. A very bright one hung deep in the sky by the horizon, but even that was unknown to him.

He felt a cold wave of fear wash over him. Until now he had expected that it would be relatively simple to navigate home once he had ascertained where he was. But if even the stars were foreign, he was much farther away than he had originally thought, though the season was certainly the same as the one where he had been. Nothing was making sense. Gwydion sat down on a bank of barrels and fought the panic that was rising in his throat.

Across the road a slight movement caught his attention, and he turned to look. Someone was moving behind the identical bank of barrels that lined the roadway, crouching low and peering over the tops of them toward the meeting hall. Gwydion decided to investigate. He had left much of his gear back at the farmhouse, but he still had his dagger, and he drew it now and ran silently across the road, circling around behind the line of barrels.

When he was in position he rose carefully and rested one hand on a barrel, looking around it to spot the intruder. To his surprise it was a young woman, hiding behind the line of barrels and watching the comings and goings of the crowd.

He couldn’t see her face. She had long straight hair with just a hint of a wave to it, and it hung like a silken sheet down her back. In the dark it appeared to be the color of pale flax, and Gwydion was struck by the desire to run his hand down it.

He reached out and instead tapped her on the shoulder. She started and gasped, reeling around to face him and nearly toppling the empty barrels into the road.

The look of shock on her face did nothing to diminish his instantaneous impression that she was undoubtedly the fairest thing he had ever seen. Her face was delicately formed, with large, dark eyes fringed with black lashes and an upper lip shaped like a longbow. Unlike the other young women at the party, she was clearly of mixed blood, as he was, and thin. As she backed up toward the barrels her hair fell over her shoulders, obscuring much of her upper body and the corsage of flowers that adorned her breast.

“Don’t be frightened,” Gwydion said as gently as he could. “I’m sorry if I startled you.”

The girl took a deep breath, and her enormous eyes ran rapidly over his face. She blinked abruptly, as if trying to clear away sudden stinging tears. It took a long moment for her to be able to respond, and when she did the wonder in her voice made his stomach tighten with excitement.

“You’re Lirin,” she said. The words held as much awe as he had ever heard uttered before.

“Yes, partly; you are, too?”

She nodded slowly.

Gwydion coughed to cover the flush he felt creeping into his face. “Uhm, are there many of you, I mean, Lirin, around here?”

“No,” she said, and the amazement was still in her voice. “Except for my mother and brothers, you are the first I have ever seen. Who are you?”

Gwydion thought about how to answer her. He wanted more than anything to tell her the truth, but he wasn’t sure himself what that was.

“I’m called Sam,” he said simply. “What about you?”

The young woman smiled for the first time, and Gwydion felt a strange stirring he had never experienced before. It was heady, and frightening, and dizzying all at once, and he was not sure that the control he normally had over his face or voice was still in place.

“Emily,” she said, and then she looked behind her. Two young men were approaching, bantering between themselves, and looking around the area. The young woman backed up, almost into him, and then ducked quickly behind the barrels again. Gwydion sat down next to her, hidden from view as well.

Together they watched as the men searched around, looking down the dry dirt road and over the neighboring fields. Just then the music started, amid a swelling of laughter and applause from inside, and the men turned back toward the hall. Emily waited until they were out of sight, then let loose a long sigh.

“Do you know them?” Gwydion asked, wondering what he had missed.

“Yes,” she said curtly. She rose up onto her knees to see better. Catching sight of no one else, she relaxed, then stood once more and brushed the dirt off her skirt.

Gwydion stood as well. In general he had little use for women, young or old; being motherless, he had little experience with any. But this girl was different somehow. There was an innate intelligence in her eyes, as well as something indescribable, and he was fascinated by her. Perhaps it was that she was the singular example of her race whom he had seen so far. Or it might have been the mild humming in his eyes and his utter inability to break his gaze away and stop looking at her. Whatever the reason, he wanted to make sure she didn’t walk away.

“Why are you hiding? Don’t you like to dance?”

She turned to face him again, and Gwydion felt the strange sensation once more. It began in his groin, but rushed rapidly to his head and hands, leaving those areas weak and perspiring a little. “I love to dance,” she said. Her tone was wistful.

“Well, then, shall we? I mean, would you like to?” His voice sounded inane to his ears.

Emily’s eyes filled with regret, and she shook her head. “I can’t,” she said sadly. “Not yet. I’m sorry.”

“What’s the matter?”

She looked behind her again. Seeing nothing that bothered her, she turned back around. She gave him a direct look. “Doesn’t this all seem, well, barbaric to you?”

Gwydion stared at her in astonishment, then let out a laugh. “Yes, actually,” he said, trying not to be rude at the same time he was being honest. “Yes, it does.”

“Well, then, imagine how I feel.”

Gwydion felt his liking of her instantly increase. He put his hand out to her. “Come out of there,” he said.

Emily gave a backward glance, then took his hand and allowed him to assist her over the debris around the barrels. They walked a little farther down the road, then looked back toward the hall. The dance was in full swing, with merry music issuing forth and the sound of excited voices filling the night air. It was warm, with a soft breeze; a perfect night.

Gwydion had so many questions that he didn’t know where to start, but he was sure that he did not want to frighten her off by overwhelming her with his need for information. He pointed to the corsage.

“Are you here with someone?”

Emily’s brows furrowed; then her eyes followed his finger. Rapidly, understanding crossed her face.

“No,” she said, smiling slightly. “These are a gift from my father. You don’t come to the foreharvest dance with anyone, that would be counterproductive.”

“I see,” Gwydion said. Now that she was out in the lantern-light he took the opportunity to study her more. Her dress was velvet, probably a dark blue, and it was cut with a deep, curving neckline. Underneath it at the throat was a modesty piece that matched the lace at the hem, studded with a line of small silver buttons of simple manufacture. A tiny matching ribbon pulled two of the front strands of her pale hair off her face, securing them at the back of her head.

Her Lirin blood was obvious in her slim build and delicate features, but she was only three or four inches shorter than he was, probably just over five feet. Despite the calluses on her hands, and a small scar on her wrist, she had an absence of the coarseness that some of the other farmgirls had, and there was an air of dignity about her that belied her age. He wished he could tell more about the colors of her complexion and beautiful dark eyes, but the light was too weak.

He was suddenly grateful for the first time to his own father for the years of intense insistence regarding Cymrian language study. “Well, what are you going to do now? Since you obviously don’t want to go in.”

Emily looked back at the hall. “I think I’ll just wait here until my brother comes to fetch me at midnight,” she said, sounding a little disheartened.

“Seems like a pretty miserable way to spend a summer evening.”

“Well, there are varying degrees of misery. It could be worse.”

Gwydion nodded sympathetically. He could see that her family must be somewhat better off than most to afford her the trimmings on her dress, though in his family’s circles she would still be seen as a very poor peasant, or at most a common landowner. Her family’s relative wealth, coupled with her appearance, had obviously made her a prime target for the young hunters inside. Unlike the other young women, however, she was unwilling quarry, and he respected her for it.

“I have an idea,” he said, casting a glance around. “There’s a clear, flat area over there near the meeting hall, but not too near. I’m sure we can hear the music from there. Why don’t we have a dance or two there? If you’re willing, of course.” All his years of etiquette training stumbled over his tongue and he screeched to an awkward halt.

Emily’s face brightened, and Gwydion’s heart rose. “What a wonderful idea,” she said happily. “I would love to. Thank you.”

He offered her his hand once more, and led her across the road and over the fields to the small clearing he had seen. They ducked quickly to the side of the building when more people came through the door, but managed to avoid being seen.

A mazurka was ending just as they reached the field. They stood, facing each other in awkward silence, until the next dance began. Gwydion put his hand on her waist, and was almost unbalanced by the thrill that shot from his fingers up his arm to his head. He took her hand as she lifted the edge of her skirt, and they followed the rhythm of the music across the field, turning in time.

Almost immediately there was a problem. Though the dance was a simple two-step, Gwydion’s training had been in classical military style, and as a result, the unsophisticated step Emily used caught his foot on the fourth pass. She trod lightly on his toe, and embarrassment flooded her face. He ignored it, going on, but at the same point in the next set of passes it happened again. She stopped, looking humiliated, and turned away quickly.

“I’m terribly sorry, Sam,” she said. “You must think I have all the grace of a farm animal. Maybe you should go back inside.”

Gwydion took hold of her shoulders and turned her around. “What are you talking about? I’m the one who doesn’t know the dance. Please don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Start acting like I’m one of them.” He gestured at the hall. “I’m enjoying your company, Emily, and I can’t think of anything you resemble less than a farm animal. Do you know what the next dance will be?”

Emily’s smile returned. “Probably a courting twirl.”

“Well, can I have another go of it? I think I can handle that.” She nodded. Gwydion noticed that he had not released her hand, and she had not pulled it away, so he held it as they stood, waiting for the waltz to begin. When it finally did he was careful to stick to the basic steps and not add any of the flourishes that he had been taught for use at court.

This time they meshed perfectly, and he could see exhilaration take her as they waltzed across the field in time to the diminished music. When she was excited her eyes caught the light, or perhaps they generated it themselves. Either way, by the time the dance was finished they were sparkling brighter than the illumination from any lantern.

“Emmy, what are you doing out here? Are you coming in?” She whirled around. Gwydion looked over her head to see a small group standing at the edge of the field, staring at them. The speaker was a dark-haired young man of mixed race; he concluded that this must be her brother. In addition there were two young women and one of the boys who had been out looking for her earlier. All wore expressions containing varying degrees of displeasure.

“Everyone’s waiting for you, Emmy. You’ve missed three dances already and your suitor card is messed up completely. Come on.”

Emily straightened her shoulders. “I’ll be in eventually, Ben,” she answered with an annoyed tone. “And I couldn’t care less about the suitor card. I didn’t put one in the basket, so I shouldn’t have one anyway.”

“Everyone has a suitor card,” said the other young man, his annoyance a match for hers. “And I had the first dance. Now get in here.”

Gwydion watched Emily’s back go rigid. “Don’t you dare speak to me like that, Sylvus,” she said coldly. “I’ll be in when I’m damned good and ready.” He swallowed a laugh at the look of horror on the faces of the young women, and the astonishment of her brother and Sylvus. Ben smiled slightly, and turned to the other boy.

“See, didn’t I tell you? Are you sure you want to risk ending up with that for the rest of your life?” He winked at her and went back inside, followed by the girls. Sylvus stared at her. Finally he spoke.

“Hurry up, Emily, I’m waiting.” He went back inside, with a backward glare at Gwydion.

He heard her mutter under her breath. “Yes, and you’re insufferable, too.”

Gwydion leaned his head down near her ear. “Good for you,” he said encouragingly. “Want to take a walk?”

Emily gave his question no thought at all. “I’d love to. Come, I’ll show you my favorite place in all the world.”

The moon was just beginning to rise as they ran down the road and cut across the field, heading up the slope of a rolling hill and leaving the noise and light of the party behind them.

Gwydion had always been happier outdoors than inside, and as a result spent much time running and walking out in the world. Despite that training it was difficult to keep up with Emily, who, her dress and sensibly laced shoes notwithstanding, climbed the hill without even breathing hard, running most of the way.

Gwydion had still not completely adjusted to the thin, warm air, and found himself struggling up hills and steep grades, trying to stay beside her, but more often lagging behind. Occasionally she would remember he was there, and slow her steps, or turn and offer him her hand. Finally he decided not to release it when her excitement spurred her to hurry again, and she got the message. They climbed the rest of the way together, hand in hand, at a speedy but reasonable pace.

Just before the summit she stopped in a shaft of moonlight that made her hair look silver. “We’re almost there,” she said, and he could see her eyes sparkle again in the dark. “Close your eyes.”

Gwydion complied, and followed her blindly up to the top of the grade. She turned a little to the right, and gently led him behind her.

“Watch your foot, there’s a hole here.”

He stepped around it, and felt her come to a stop. He could hear the intake of her breath as she released his hand.

“All right, you can open your eyes now.”

His vision adjusted automatically, but his breath was taken even further away by the sight. The valley stretched out below at his feet, bathed in moonlight, as far as he could see. A variety of fields made it up, some tilled, some fallow, with a great willow tree in the middle bending down over a stream that bisected the land. Even in the dark Gwydion could feel the beauty of the place, made somehow more intense by Emily’s love of it.

“Where are we?”

Emily sank to the ground and he followed her lead gratefully. “This is one of the hills that overlook our farm,” she said. “My dowry lands are the fields in the middle by the stream, where the willow stands. I call this place the Patchworks, because in the light it looks like the quilt on my bed, with the different textures and colors of the fields.”

Gwydion looked at her face shining in the moonlight, and heard a door in his heart open. There was something much more than the alien chemical excitement that had been coursing through him from the moment he laid eyes on her, leaving him feeling giddy and stupid. Deep inside him he felt a need more intense than he had ever felt before.

It was as if he had known her his whole life, or perhaps merely that his life had really started when he met her. Either way, and for whatever reason he was here, he knew he couldn’t bear to be away from her for even a moment now. And there was something in her eyes that told him she was examining these same strange and wonderful feelings within her own heart.

She turned and looked into the valley again. “Well, do you like it?” she asked, a little anxiously.

He knew her meaning, and added his own to it. “It’s the most beautiful sight I have ever beheld.”

Awkwardly he leaned toward her, hoping that his lips would find her willing. He had never kissed anyone except in gestures of respect, and so moved with agonizing slowness, his extremities going cold in the expectation that she might dart out of the way in horror.

Instead, when his intentions became clear to her she smiled, closed her eyes, and leaned into his kiss quickly and with eagerness. He had not anticipated the softness of her mouth, or its warmth, and the sensation sent cold shivers through him, even on this hot night. She touched his face before their lips parted, and the gesture went straight to his heart.

Then, as the happiness he was discovering began to envelop him, an icier feeling rose up to meet it. He looked over the valley and the picture in front of his eyes began to shift, the luminescence turned from moonlit silver to the flat gray of caustic smoke.

In his mind’s eye he could see the valley in the aftermath of a devastating fire, the pastureland smoldering, the farmhouses and outbuildings in ashes. The ground was razed, and the fields swam in rivers of blood that seeped through the whole of the pastureland. Gwydion started to tremble violently as the red tide began to surge up the side of the valley below them, coming their way with an unstoppable insistence.

“Sam?” Emily’s voice was filled with alarm. “Are you all right? What’s the matter?”

Gwydion snapped out of his reverie, and as he did the vision vanished, returning the valley to peaceful silver again. A look of consternation had taken up residence on Emily’s face. Her fingers still rested on his cheek, and he took her hand. His own was shaking uncontrollably.

“Sam?” Emily’s eyes grew darker, and worry flooded her face.

“Emily, where are we? I mean, what is the name of this village?”

“Merryfield.”

His stomach began to cramp. Merryfield was a common enough name; it could be anywhere. But on the ancient maps he remembered there was a village by that name, somewhere in the midst of the Wide Meadows, the great expanse of open plains that made up a large part of mideastern Serendair. The Meadows had been devastated in the war; none of the human villages had survived. And even when peace was restored, the villages were only beginning to be rebuilt when the Island was destroyed.

“What are the nearest towns? Cities?”

Emily’s concern was growing as each moment passed. “There are no towns or cities around here, Sam, not for more than a hundred leagues. My father only goes into the city once a year, and he’s gone for more than a month when he does.”

“What’s the name of the city, Emily? Do you know?”

She squeezed his hand in an effort to calm him, though he could see she had no understanding of his panic. “We’re in the middle of two. To the west, on the other side of the great river, is Hope’s Landing, and to the southeast is Easton. That’s the biggest city in the land, I think.”

Gwydion’s eyes began to sting. It can’t be, he thought desperately, it can’t be. Both of the names she had mentioned were cities in Serendair.

“Sam?” His panic was beginning to take Emily over, too. Gwydion looked into her face. His eyes cleared suddenly, his vision became intensely acute again, and from the depths of his despair his pragmatic nature reemerged.

Of course, he thought, his fear subsiding instantaneously. He was here to save her from the destruction of the Island. He knew how, and to whom to go, and when they would need to leave. Some beneficent Fate must have sent him back in Time, given him this chance, though he had no idea why.

He looked at her again, and smiled, and that realization came to him as well. This must be his soul mate; he knew it more certainly than he knew his own name. He could see it. With the clarity of the knowledge came a sense of calm assurance and growing joy. Emily was his soul mate. It was easy to believe, given how much he knew he loved her already.

Gwydion took her face in his hands, and pulled her into another kiss. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said when he released her. “I need to tell you something.”

She moved back from him a little. “What?”

He tried to keep his voice from cracking, as it occasionally did when he was excited or anxious. “We have to leave as soon as we can, and go east to the Meadows. If anything happens to me, or if we get separated for any reason, you must promise me you will find someone named MacQuieth, or Farrist, or Garael. Please, promise me.”

Emily stared at him in amazement. “What are you talking about?”

Gwydion thought about how to explain, and then realized he couldn’t. How could she possibly understand now? No one knew this was coming; the war had not even reached here, and the death of the Island was centuries after the war. Then a sadder thought occurred to him. Perhaps he wasn’t destined to go back, either. Perhaps instead he was to live, and die, here, in the Past.

He took her face in his hands again and studied it carefully. Despite his irrational behavior, she seemed to understand his distress, and she wanted to soothe it. Her eyes sought answers in his face. They were dark with concern; their sympathy had no visible bottom to its depth. It was a face he could look at forever and still not tire of, or even fully know everything about. Tenderness welled up inside him, choking him, and he decided, without a second thought, that dying here with her was infinitely better than going back to living without her.

The moonlight shifted and filled her eyes, and she smiled. When she did, his fear of the situation evaporated, and he kissed her once more, lingering longer this time. The wonderful, queasy feeling returned to his stomach as he felt her lips part slightly and her breath filled his mouth. The intimacy was more than he could handle without losing control completely.

He drew back, and found a look of wonder on her face. “I can’t believe you really came,” she whispered. “Where are you from?”

Gwydion was astonished. “What do you mean?”

Emily took his hands, her excitement spilling over from her eyes to her body, which began to quiver happily. “You were my wish, weren’t you? Have you come to save me from the lottery, to take me away?”

Gwydion swallowed. “You could say that. Why do you think I’m your wish?”

Her face held no shyness, no awkwardness. “I wished for you to come last night on my star, right after midnight, and here you are. You don’t know where you are, do you? Did I bring you from a long way off?”

Gwydion’s eyes grew larger, and he gave her a silly smile. “Yes, definitely.”

She sighed. “I can’t believe it. I waited for almost a year for the right night, and it worked. You’ve finally come. You’re finally here.” A single tear formed in her eye and rolled rapidly down her face, making the intensity of her smile even brighter. There was magic in her, he decided. Maybe magic strong enough to really have brought him here over the waves of Time. She stood and offered him a hand. “Come on,” she said. “Let me show you the fairy fort.”

They walked down the face of the valley, slowly this time, toward the stream that wound through the pasturelands. As they descended the hillside Gwydion watched the unfamiliar stars move farther away, and the black sky stretch out above them, filled with endless promise.

When they reached the stream Emily stopped, then looked around in dismay. The water was moving more rapidly than she had expected, and the banks were marshy; one of her shoes sank in and stuck tight. Gwydion helped her pull it free, but when it emerged it was covered with mud. She looked helplessly over to the willow tree where she hoped to take him, and then down at the intricately laced shoes.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” she said, disappointment clotting her voice. “I don’t think I can make it, and I can’t really take my shoes off—they take hours to put on as it is. You should still go, though. The view from under the willow tree is amazing.”

“There really wouldn’t be any point in going without you,” Gwydion said. He looked around for an easier place to ford the stream, but found none. A thought occurred to him, but he didn’t know if he could bring himself to suggest it.

“Well, you could carry me,” she said, as though reading his mind. “That is, if you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all,” he said in relief. His voice cracked at the first word, and he hid his embarrassment by tying up the ends of his cloak to keep them from dangling in the river. When the heat in his face had subsided he put his arms out. He had never carried anyone before, and he swore to himself that if he dropped her he would find the nearest poisonous plant and put himself out of his humiliation.

Emily came to him without a hint of caution. She wrapped one arm around his neck, and then, as if guiding him, took his arm and placed it behind her knees. He lifted her with little difficulty and carried her carefully to the stream, and then across it. He kept walking once out of the water, wending his way through the soggy grass to the willow tree, where he put her down gently.

It was a magnificent one, with many trunks surrounding a main shaft wider than he could have reached his arms around three times. The tree had grown enormously tall with its ready supply of water, and the delicate leaves cast lacy moonshadows on the ground, like summer snowflakes.

Emily patted the willow lovingly. “Farmers believe that a solitary tree in the middle of pasturelands is the home of all the fairies that live in the fields,” she said, looking up at the tallest branches and smiling. “That means this tree is very magical. It’s terrible luck to lose a fairy fort to lightning or fire, and no farmer would ever cut one down.”

Gwydion thought back to his vision, the pasturelands burned and desolate. He had seen the willow then, blackened and dead, and he shuddered involuntarily at the memory. He turned back to Emily. She was walking around the tree, her hand resting on the branches above her, speaking to it softly in a language he didn’t understand.

When she came back around to him she smiled. “So, now that you’ve seen it, what would you like to do next? Do you want to go back?”

“Not yet,” he said, returning her smile. “Do you know anything about the stars?”

“Yes; why?”

“Will you teach me?”

“If you’d like.” She started to sit on the ground under the tree, but he stopped her. He loosed the drawstring of his cloak from around his neck and spread it out on the ground for her.

Her grin of approval made him shiver. “Sam?”

“Yes?”

“Would it bother you if I took off my dress?”

Gwydion felt all the blood drain from his face. A moment later, he was painfully aware of the place to which it had decided to run. Before he could speak she interrupted him, embarrassment in her voice.

“I’m sorry; I should have been more specific. I mean this part.” She touched the blue velvet overdress awkwardly. “I assure you, I am quite modestly attired beneath it. It’s just that this is my only fancy dress, and if I spoil it, it will break my mother’s heart. Would you mind?”

Many answers ran through Gwydion’s head, and the corresponding expressions all passed over his face in an instant.

“No,” he said.

Emily turned her back and walked over to the tree again. He watched her unlace the bodice of the velvet overdress and slide it over her shoulders; it was off before he had a chance to realize that his blatant stare was rude. She stepped out of it and hung it carefully over a tree branch, then turned to face him once more. She now wore a sleeveless gown of white lace. The modesty piece he had seen before was part of the bodice, and the crinoline was long and full, like the skirt of a summer dress.

She sat down on his cloak, and he took his place beside her. “What do you want to know about the stars?” she asked, looking up into the night sky. Her hair hung down over her shoulders, and it was all Gwydion could do to keep his hands off it.

“Anything. Everything. I don’t recognize any of them, so whatever you can tell me would be a help. The stars are different where I come from.” It seemed a simple, factual statement to him, but Emily’s face shone with wonder at the thought. She settled back on the ground, stretching out with her head resting against the green moss that slanted up against the base of the willow tree.

“Well, first and foremost, that’s Seren, the star that the Island is named for. Most nights in the spring and summer it is directly overhead at midnight.”

Gwydion settled down beside her. He stretched out his arm behind her, trying to avoid touching her too soon. As she had several other times that night, she read his mind and took hold of his arm, pulling it around behind her shoulders. The movement didn’t even stop the astronomy lesson she was imparting.

She continued to point out stars and constellations, telling him a little of the lore and whatever history she knew. She seemed to have an impressive background in it, some of which was navigational. Gwydion made note of that odd fact, but after a moment he was no longer watching the heavens, as she was, but had relocated his gaze to her face. It was glowing with its own celestial light, and he felt he was learning far more by watching the stars in her eyes than by looking into the sky. He rolled onto his side and bent his arm behind his head, grinning like an idiot.

After a long time Emily looked up, as if awakening, and saw the silly look on his face. She blushed in embarrassment and sat up quickly.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to blather on.”

“You weren’t,” he said hastily. “I was listening very carefully.” He held his arm out straight. “Tell me some more.”

She lay back down again, staring straight up at the sky. This time her face was solemn, and she said nothing for a moment. When she finally spoke her voice contained a note of sadness.

“You know, ever since I can remember I have dreamed about this place,” she said softly. “Until recently I had the same dream almost every night—I was out here in the dark, under the stars, holding out my hands to them. And in my dream the stars would fall from the sky and into my hands, and I could hold them fast; I would make a fist, and see them glimmer in between my fingers. Then I would wake up, and when I did, I always had an extraordinary feeling of happiness that would last through the morning at least.”

“And then my dream changed. I think it was when I was officially entered in the marriage lottery. I was eligible for it last year, but my father said it was too soon. This year it was unavoidable, and, despite my wishes, and theirs, my parents gave in to tradition and town practice and put me in like a horse on the auction block. My whole life is changing now, and my dream changed with it. Now, it comes much less frequently, and when it does it’s not the same.”

“How is it different?” His voice was sympathetic.

“Well, the beginning is similar. I’m here in the pasture, in the dark, and the stars are just as intensely bright as before, but when they fall into my hands they fall right through them; I can’t hold on to them, and they tumble into the stream instead. I find myself looking down into the water, and the stars are lying there at the bottom of the stream, shining up at me.”

Gwydion felt the sadness in her voice seep into his heart. “Do you have any idea what it means, if anything?”

“Yes, I think so,” Emily replied. “I think I finally came to understand that all the things I had dreamed of seeing, and of doing, are not going to come to pass. That instead of seeing the world, and going off to study, and all the other marvelous adventures I had hoped to have when I was young, what actually will be my fate is what all my friends dream about—marrying someone of my father’s choice, settling down and raising a family here in the valley. In a way, I had hoped to do that, too, eventually; I love this land, and I could be happy here. But— I thought—” Her words slowed and she fell silent.

“Thought what?”

“I thought there was going to be more for me. I know that’s selfish and childish, but I had hoped that I would one day see the things and places that come to me in my dreams.”

“I think the change reflects my acceptance that this is never going to happen. That in a few days I will give up those silly hopes. I’ll marry someone chosen from the lottery who, with any luck, will be kind to me, or at least not cruel, as some farm men are, and I will live and die here, never setting foot outside the valley. I guess I have known all along that would be the case. The dreams come even less frequently now. Soon I expect they will stop all together, and then I will forget them and get on with my life.”

Her words made his stomach turn. “No.”

“No?”

Once again the pragmatism descended, and the answer was inordinately clear to him. Gwydion sat up, cross-legged, and pulled her up with him. “Emily, what are the courting customs here? What protocol do I follow to avoid the lottery and ask your father directly for your hand?”

Emily’s eyes sparkled, then almost immediately darkened again. “Oh, Sam,” she said sadly. “He’ll never let me go with you. He has saved for my dowry since I was a baby, kept these middle pasturelands for it, just to assure that whoever I married kept me here in the bosom of the family. He’d never consent to you taking me away.”

Gwydion felt as if he would vomit. He couldn’t explain to her in words the urgency to get away from this place. “Then will you come anyway, Emily? Will you run away with me?”

She looked down at her hands. His throat tightened and his shoulders began to tremble as he waited for the answer. Finally she looked up, and the expression in her eyes was direct.

“Yes,” she said simply. “It would be a real waste of a wish not to, don’t you think?”

Relief broke over him like a spray of cold water. “Yes; yes I do.” He pulled her into a tight embrace, resting his hot cheek on hers. “Is there someone who can marry us in this village?”

Emily sighed in his arms. “There will be in a few days, after the lottery. Everyone will be marrying then.”

Gwydion pulled her even closer. He had no idea how long they could delay leaving, but the risk would be worth it. He resolved to wait, and not frighten her unnecessarily.

“Sam?”

He released her reluctantly, and sat back, looking at her with new eyes. When the sun had risen that morning, he had been totally free, and utterly alone; his life was that of other boys his age, with little thought of the Future, and little belief in it.

And now he was looking at his wife. He had always wondered what the other half of his soul looked like, and was delighted, and humbled, to see it was so incredible; he was actually amazed to know he even had one. The prospect of living by her side for the rest of his life filled him with a heady, if terrifying, feeling. In years to come, as he mourned her death over the endlessly passing days of his lifetime, he would think back to this moment and remember the way she had looked when he first saw her with his new eyes, eyes that still believed that life held a great measure of love for him.

“Yes?”

“Do you think we might see the ocean? Someday, I mean.”

At that moment he would have truthfully promised her anything she asked of him. “Of course. We can even live there if you want. Haven’t you ever seen it?”

“I’ve never left the farmlands, Sam, never in my whole life.” A faraway look came into her eyes. “I’ve always longed to see the ocean, though. My grandfather is a sailor, and all my life he has promised me that he would take me to sea one day. Until recently I believed it.” She looked into his eyes and saw a trace of sadness there, and quickly looked away. Innately he could see that the sorrow he felt for her made her sad for him instead. When she looked back, her eyes were shining as though she had thought of a way to make him feel better. She leaned near him, and whispered as if imparting a great secret. “But I’ve seen his ship.”

Gwydion was astonished. “How can that be, if you’ve never seen the sea?”

She smiled at him in the dark. “Well, when he’s in port, it’s actually very tiny—about as big as my hand. And he keeps it on his mantel, in a bottle. He showed it to me once when he came to visit.”

Tears stung his eyes. For all the famous and special people he had met in his life, he was sure that the purity of their collective souls couldn’t hold a candle to hers. He was unable to breathe for a moment. When he did, he said exactly what his heart was thinking.

“You are the most wonderful girl in the world.”

She looked at him seriously. “No, Sam, just the luckiest. And the happiest.”

His hands trembled as he touched her bare arms. Their kiss was deep, and held all the promise of a nuptial blessing. For the first time it was easy for him, and the difficult part was bringing it to an end.

“Sam?” Her beautiful eyes were glistening in the light of the moon.

“Yes?”

“I have two things I need to tell you.”

He could tell from the smile on her face that neither would be difficult to hear.

“Yes?”

Emily looked down for a moment. “Well, the first is that if you kiss me again, I think we will end up consummating our marriage here, tonight.”

His trembling grew to an uncontrollable level. “And the second?”

She ran her hand down his face until it came to a stop on his shoulder. “I really want you to kiss me again.” As if in a trance, Gwydion smoothed his cloak out on the ground, and Emily lay down on it. He sat back on his heels, looking at her for a moment, until she put her arms out to him. With a catch in his throat he eased down next to her and came into her embrace, hugging her as tightly as he could without hurting her. He held her like that for what seemed like a very long time, until her hair brushed the tips of his fingers, and he gave in to the desire he had had all night to touch it.

His hands ran down her hair over and over again, relishing the cool, smooth feel of it, like polished satin. Gwydion felt her hands slip into the circle his arms made as he held her, and begin to loosen the tie that bound his shirt closed. He shivered as she gently pulled the shirt loose from his trousers and slid her hands up his abdomen to his chest, where they came lightly to rest. The gesture gave him courage, and he closed his eyes as his lips sought, and found, hers. He could feel them trembling as much as his were.

The warm night wind blew over them, caressing their hair.

Gwydion released her with one arm and leaned back, taking in the sight of her. There was no fear or embarrassment on Emily’s face, just a look of loving approval.

His eyes didn’t leave her face as his hand went to the bodice of her garment, taking the first tiny heart-shaped button between fingers that shook as though the wind were a wintry blast. As the material came apart beneath them his hands shook even more, until on the fifth button they lurched in a spasm of nerves and tore the button loose from the lace.

Gwydion stared down at his hand in horror. “Emily, I’m so sorry,” he gasped, embarrassment flooding him and turning his face red as the setting sun had been. His panicked glance returned to her face to find her smiling in amusement. She took the button from him for a moment, turning it over in her hand. “Aren’t they pretty?” she said, almost as if musing to herself. “My father brought them back for me from the city on his last trip as a birthday gift. I’m sure they cost far too much money.”

“Emily—”

She stopped him by putting two fingers of her other hand on his lips. She replaced the button in his hand, closing his fingers around it.

“Keep it, Sam,” she said. “As a memento of the night when I gave you my heart.” She felt hot tears fall on the bare skin below her neck, and she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him to her chest. “It’s all right, Sam,” she said. “You won’t hurt me. Really. It will be all right.”

She was reading his mind again. Gwydion felt a wave of sureness crest over him, and he brushed the flimsy fabric out of the way, lowering his lips to the hollow between her breasts. With all the tenderness his young soul could muster he kissed her soft skin while his free hand gently slid the top of her frock off her shoulders and onto the ground beneath her.

His hand returned to the swell of her small breast, and with the slightest touch, his fingers caressed the pink nipple, followed by his mouth. As his lips touched the delicate skin she began to shiver, and the sensation swept through him, leaving him cold and burning at the same time.

Wonder filled his heart as the moonlight came to rest on her beneath the tree, illuminating her face that had been shining already without it. Her eyes glittered in the light, and he saw tears in them that matched his own. The look in those beautiful eyes was so certain, so sure, that to question what they were doing would have been to scoff at the magic they were both undeniably feeling. Gwydion’s lips returned to the breast he had laid bare, and his hands moved beneath the crinkly skirt. When they made contact with the warm skin of her legs he was afraid his excitement would give way there and then.

In turn she pulled awkwardly on the laces of his trousers, and then made some calculated adjustments. As the waistband came loose she pushed them down, freeing him from the restrictions that had been keeping him in check, and exposing him briefly to the wind. Gwydion shivered violently and moved closer to her, seeking her warmth. He leaned up over her and looked down. The expression in her eyes broke his heart.

“I love you, Sam,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for you for so long. I always knew you would come to me if I wished for you.”

Then slowly he was inside her, moving as gently as he could, trying not to lose control as he began to gasp in the throes of unimaginable pleasure.

Emily trembled beneath him, and her hands moved up his back, pulling him closer, drawing him in. He could hear her breath grow shorter; she tilted her head back and as she did his lips moved to her throat, kissing it gratefully. He was bathing her neck with tears, and he felt one of her hands leave his shoulder and move to his head, caressing it with a comforting motion.

When they were finally completely joined he lay above her, within her, motionless for a moment, afraid that if he moved or took a breath he would awake to find that this was only a dream. Even if it was, he was unwilling to let it end yet.

Emily’s other hand came to rest on the side of his head and she kissed him, imparting a wordless, loving encouragement. Then she began to move slowly, rocking him from below, wrapping one of her legs around his.

From the bottom of his toes Gwydion felt an exquisite heat rise, and with it came an insistent movement that matched hers, building the fire he felt in his stomach into a raging inferno that swelled within him and consumed his entire body. He lost touch with his thoughts and let them drift away on the warm night wind, concentrating instead on the rhythm of her heart beating beneath him and the delicate sounds she was emitting.

She whispered his name, or what she thought was his name, and the thrill of hearing it drove his excitement higher. The word became a cadence she repeated, spoken softly over and over as she began to grow warm and sigh with pleasure. The sound reached down into his heart, pushing him past the gates of control, and as the thunder rolled up within him he felt her begin to cry out, gripping him as an anchor as she was swept away by the same wave he was riding.

Time became suspended; how long he made love to her he couldn’t realistically gauge, having nothing to compare it with, but it seemed to last an eternity. With each passing second he felt the love in his heart for her expand until he was sure it had outgrown his body. He had expected this event to come much later in his life, and to be far less meaningful, so the shuddering sobs that consumed him when it was over took him completely by surprise.

“Sam?” Emily’s voice was alarmed as she pulled him nearer.

“Gods, did I hurt you, Emily? Are you all right?”

She kissed him tenderly, and then pulled back to look into his eyes. “Are you kidding? Did it feel like I was hurt?” She laughed, and the feeling shot through him like a hot bolt of lightning, running up his spine and resonating in his forehead.

He bent his head down over her shoulder, weak with relief. “Emily, I would never, never hurt you on purpose; I hope you know that.”

She look him straight on the eye. “Of course I do. Why would you ever hurt something that belongs to you? Because I do, Sam. I’m yours.”

He sighed. “Thank the gods.”

“No,” she said seriously, “thank the stars. It was them that brought you to me.”

Gwydion lifted his head with great effort and stared into the moonlit sky above him, sprinkled with grains of light like sand from a diamond beach.

“Thank you!” he shouted. Emily giggled, then sighed as he moved regretfully away and began to put himself back together. She adjusted her clothing as well, and as they finished dressing a look of disappointment came over her face. She turned toward the village, then back to him.

“That’s the Lorana waltz. We had best get back, the dance will be ending soon.”

Gwydion sighed. He would have been happy to stay in this field with her forever.

“Oh, all right,” he said.

He took her hand and pulled her up, then drew her into his arms and kissed her once more. When he looked at her face he saw no trace of regret, or second thought, just blissful contentment.

He put his cloak back on and lifted Emily off the ground, carrying her across the stream again, knowing that they were crossing the threshold of the place she loved, the place she thought of as home. He felt a twinge of sadness at the knowledge that their hasty exit would mean this was the last time he would ever carry her over that threshold.

They crossed the fields hand in hand, walking more slowly than they had coming here. When they crested the face of the hill, the grip of Emily’s hand tightened suddenly.

He turned to her anxiously. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, but I need to sit down for a moment.”

Gwydion took hold of her other hand and helped her to the ground, then sank worriedly down beside her. “Emily, what’s wrong?”

She gave him a reassuring smile. “Nothing is wrong, Sam. I just need to rest a minute.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Can I ask you something?”

“Of course, anything.”

“How old are you?”

“Fourteen. How old are you?”

She thought for a moment. “What time do you think it is?”

“About eleven o’clock, I would say.”

“Then I’m thirteen.”

Gwydion looked at her, puzzled. “Why does the time matter?”

“Because in an hour I’ll be fourteen, too, like you.”

Now he understood. “It’s your birthday?”

“Well, tomorrow.”

He pulled her into his arms. “Happy birthday, Emily.”

“Thank you.” She grew very excited. “Wait; I have an idea! Do you want to come to supper tomorrow?”

Gwydion hugged her tighter. “That would be wonderful.”

She pushed out of his embrace, and he smiled at the eagerness on her face. “You can meet my parents and my brothers. Maybe if my father sees how happy I am with you he will give his consent.”

“What time?”

“Why don’t you come about five—we eat at six.”

He looked down at his dusty clothes regretfully. “This is all I have to wear, I’m afraid.”

Emily touched the material of his shirt. It was woven of a fabric finer than she had ever seen before, and the craftsmanship of all the garments was superior to even the needlework of the best seamstresses in the village. “This is fine,” she said simply. “I’ll show you my house on the way past.”

Gwydion was rummaging around in his pockets. He pulled out his pouch, and looked inside it. There was nothing that would make a suitable gift, and he doubted there would be any merchant in the village from which to purchase one. He took out the five gold coins he had brought with him on his way to the market, and put them in her hand.

“This is all I have; it’s not much of a gift, but I want you to have something from me tonight.” Tomorrow he would search the pasturelands for the most beautiful flowers he could find.

Emily’s eyes widened in amazement, and a look of horror came over her face.

“I can’t take this, Sam—this is as much as half my dowry.” She turned one of the coins over and stared at it. The face minted on it was that of the prince of Roland, a land that would not exist for another seven centuries. She took his hand and opened the palm, returning the coins. “Besides, if I come home with that, my parents will think I’ve been doing something terribly wrong.”

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.

Someone 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. 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 clutched 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 soul mate, 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.

“Well, child, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but no one by that name or description was among those to leave on the ships from the Island before its destruction. She did not land; she did not come.”

Anwyn watched as he began to sink to the ground, collapsing under the weight of his grief and her pronouncement, his body heaving with the force of his sobbing. She turned slowly back to the altar, smiling as she replaced the artifact.

“Well, then, how about some lunch?”