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She crossed herself, opened her purse, and brought out the mirror.

The mirror was still cool to the touch. The heat of her body had effected it not at all. The dim light played across the surface, allowing her glimpses of reflection — one shadowed eye, the curve of her mouth, of her jaw, a lock of hair that fell across her cheek. Lynet peered into the mirror's shadowed depths and strained to see beyond herself.

A heaviness came over her then, as if flesh and mind both were turned to stone. She could not support her body any longer and was seized with the overwhelming desire to shed it like a damp shift and fly free. But Lynet did not know how to fly, and so she fell. She fell from her body, fell past shadow and flickering firelight, fell until there was no more darkness and pure daylight opened around her.

Lynet blinked. All about her was a place of lush greenery. Flowers and herbs in profusion bloomed at the feet of beautifully tended trees. The sky overhead was blue and cloudless. A warm breeze touched her skin, bringing with it all the sweet scents of the growing things around her. Somewhere to her right, she heard the chatter of flowing water. The whole of the place promised rest and refreshment and Lynet smiled, her fears banished by pure wonder.

A footstep broke the silence, and Lynet whirled around. A man stood in the shade of a slender birch tree. He was tall and well-shaped, like all the other ornaments of this garden. Like them also, there was a reassuring earthliness to him. He was dark of hair and eye, and his craggy face and straight nose were the familiar features of a man of the Dumonii lands. He dressed well but plainly, in brown breeches and a ochre tunic embroidered with blue and yarrow yellow. He was clearly of some rank as well, because rings of braided silver banded his wrist.

But what was such a man doing here?

As if he saw the question in her eyes, he spoke first. “Be not afraid, Lady,” he said as he knelt courteously on the ground before her. “I am here to serve.”

“Who are you?” she asked.

He lifted his head and she saw in him the strangest melding of happiness and profound sorrow.

“I am Ryol.” He spoke the name slowly, as if it were an exotic spice he had not savored in many years.

“Ryol of where? Ryol son of whom?” she asked, but the man just shook his head.

“Of nowhere and nothing but here,” he said. “Not any longer.”

“Are you a ghost, Ryol?” Lynet knew very well she should have been afraid, but in the bright light of a pleasant garden, with a man so thoroughly ordinary in his appearance in front of her, she could not muster the fear. In fact, with her body and her world now elsewhere, there seemed to be a distance between her and all feeling for what existed there, past and present. Even as she wondered at this, she found she welcomed it, for the lightening of the heavy burden of feeling brought her profound relief.

The man, Ryol, smiled a little, but this did nothing to banish the sadness in his eyes. “I am no ghost. I live, my lady, even as you do.”

“What is this place?”

Ryol paused, as if considering how to answer her question, then said. “A shadow.”

“A shadow?” Lynet repeated, gazing at the tiny Eden about her. “What casts such a shadow as this?”

“My lady, if I knew that, I would know all I needed,” he said soberly. Then he shook himself. “But you have not yet told me how I may serve you.”

“What is it you are able to do?”

His smile grew a little mischievous, as if he were about to show some clever slight of hand. “Why, Lady, I can do whatever a shadow may do. I can conceal, or I can reveal. I can distort or make clear. I can cover the world between one breath and the next.” He bent his head again. “Tell me how I may put these skills to your use, and it is done.”

But even as she contemplated this extravagant statement, Lynet felt something wrong, an echo of the tug that had brought her here. It pulled now at the center of her being, causing the world before her to shudder and blur. She felt sick suddenly and everything before her became nothing but a puddle of melting color.

She felt her body surrounded her once more, cramped, aching and cold. She felt hands on her shoulders, shaking her. Someone called her name. She opened eyelids heavy as lead and crusted with sand. Her rheumy eyes looked up to see Lady Cyda standing over her.

“God of Mercy, Lynet,” she said. “You frightened me. It is morning and I thought you would never waken. Are you well, child?”

Lynet closed her hand around the mirror she still clutched. “Yes,” she said as clearly as she could manage. “That I am.”

Colan woke to the persistent prodding of a toe in his back. He tried unsuccessfully to swat it away.

“Come on, boy, shift yourself,” rumbled the axe man he had met yesterday, whose name was Llywellyn. “The lady's waiting for you outside.”

Those words woke Colan the rest of the way. He'd been bedded down in Morgaine's hall with the other single men. He slept heavily, his belly full and his body safe for the first time in days. That sleep, however, had not been so heavy as to make him forget who he owed for these simple blessings and Colan scrambled to his feet as quickly as he could. None of the other men so much as stirred as he picked his way over their snoring forms. He gave his face and arms a rough wash in the bucket by the fire and accepted the cup of small beer one of the dark-haired women held out for him, remembering to thank her politely. He was only a guest here, and, surely watched by many others besides Morgaine.

Outside the iron-banded door, the dawn had barely begun. The morning stars still hung above the brightening horizon. Morgaine did indeed wait for him, sitting on a black horse with a white blaze on its brow. In her black cloak and deep blue gown she might have been a spirit of the night itself. Colan knelt. In return, he received a smile of approval as she gestured for him to mount the bay horse standing beside her black. This he did without question. He touched up his mount as she did hers. Without any further ceremony, they put the dawn to their backs and rode after the retreating night.

The ground was silver with dew and cobwebs. Mist hung heavy in the air, but Colan could tell by the feel it would burn away when the sun rose, bringing the first truly clear day of the spring. His heart lifted at this omen, and it emboldened him to risk a few glances at the one he should now properly call his lady. She was regal in her carriage. He had seen this much before, but he had not fully noted the calm dignity of her person. That cool and distant place where Laurel could ascend to from time to time in her anger was the place where Morgaine dwelt. She kept her dark eyes on the way ahead, and Colan could not help but feel she saw much more in the misted world than he did. He felt constrained by walls he had never before known existed.

“You do not ask me where we're bound.”

Her voice seemed richer and fuller to him this morning, as if she were made greater by being out under the open sky.

“I trust you will tell me that when you are ready, my lady,” he answered.

By her smile, he saw that he had answered correctly. “We go to the sea,” she said. “Do you know why?”

“My lady, I do not.”

“It is to introduce you to some of your family, Colan.”

That light and simple statement struck Colan dumb. All the fear he had left out on the open water surged over him again. But he mastered himself. He must, for she was watching him.

“If that is my lady's wish.”

She gave him a bare nod, not only acknowledge his words, he was sure, but to say “well done” and they rode on in silence.

It was full daylight by the time they reached the cliffs. Colan knew this place. It was the beach where he had come ashore. The brisk ocean wind made his skin prickle beneath his tunic and woolen cloak. He looked out across the pale green waves, remembering their harsh, salt touch and shivered.

Morgaine dismounted and handed him her horse's reins. “We must leave them here. They will not stand in the presence of those we go to meet.”

There was nowhere to tether the beasts, so Colan hobbled them both instead. When they were secured, Morgaine led him down a rough and crooked path between the jumbled rocks.

The beach was nothing more than a narrow strip of pale sand scattered liberally with stones. The cliffs' shadows hung over the place, so that they descended into a lingering twilight. Colan's boat was still there, overturned on the sand, looking as if it had washed up lost and empty.

Morgaine stepped around the forlorn object, all her attention on the sea. The waves rushed and roared, splashing their foam onto the rocks. Gulls and terns wheeled overhead, taking advantage of the clear morning for fishing. Morgaine stood as an onyx counterpoint to this mercurial world. The very stones seemed ephemeral compared to her. They could be shifted and changed by wind or sea, but not even their might could move Morgaine.

She raised her arms. Her cloak fell back, and her billowing sleeves slipped down to reveal her strong brown arms. Colan's throat tightened strangely at the sight of her smooth brown flesh. He wondered if he should turn away. But in the next moment, Morgaine began to sing, and all thought of movement drained away from him. Her voice was like no other. It soared to meet the birds overhead. It dove straight to the center of his soul. He could not understand a word of her song, and yet it pulled at him so strongly he thought for a moment he would be dragged down to his knees. It called out across the ocean, and he knew that if that call had been for him, not only would he have understood, but he would have obeyed whatever command it contained with tears of joy in his eyes.

When the magnificent song ended, sorrow stabbed Colan. Perhaps he cried aloud. He could not be sure. All he knew was that Morgaine lowered her arms. At her feet, the eternally restless sea had gone absolutely still.

From these unnatural waters, the
morverch
rose.

The bards sang of the sea's women as beautiful creatures. They spoke of long white arms and golden hair. He knew now that those who created such verses had ever seen the beings that lifted their heads and shoulders before him. He counted six of them, yet he knew there were others he could not see. Corpse pale they were, yet life flowed abundantly within them. Nets of light danced and shimmered under the surface their skin as if beneath shallow waters. Soul and will sparkled in them, creating shadows as well as light in their eyes which slanted, far too large and far too dark in their narrow faces. Weeds and flowers tangled in their wet hair that flowed down to cover their rounded shoulders and breasts and then spread out to float in the water. He could feel the strength of it pouring out, like the force of the tide that their presence held so still.

What would it be like to be near one of these women? To touch her, to know her, to have the tide of his being drawn up from his depths and mingled with all this strange and wild beauty? As the thought formed, his flesh crawled. It was as if he had suddenly entertained carnal imaginings for one of his sisters. With their pale skin and eyes of profound depth, these were like his sisters, but they were so much more. They were present and immediate, blotting out all other things with the strength of their selves. He knew how their voices would sound once they spoke. He knew if he walked forward and grasped their hands, what their touch would be like.

He knew they were the ones who had whispered to him on the open water.

Welcome
, they said to him though their mouths did not move, and not one of them stirred.
Welcome, Cousin.

His heart leapt to be greeted so. Without thinking, he went to them. He strode hip deep in the still salt waters, so that he might grasp their cold, damp hands, and be pulled forward so he could kiss their shadowed cheeks in peace and welcome. They smelled of salt water and strange flowers, and their chill sank deep into him. The cold did not matter, for it was as familiar to him as human warmth was, even though he'd never felt it before. It was part of him, and he rejoiced in its revelation.

You come in strange company, Cousin.
The sight of Morgaine standing infinitely patient on the shore flashed through his thoughts, although he did not turn his head away from the
morverch
.

He stiffened a little, but kept hold of the two soft, cold hands. “That is my lady Morgaine,” he said carefully. It could not be that these were Morgaine's enemies. He did not think he could bear it if that were so.

Oh, yes. We know Morgaine.
The words rang strangely in him, and he was filled with fleeting images, of a distant ship, of a woman in despair on the shore, of a storm heaving up without warning, and a child, a child rolling in the waves and crying out …

“Do they speak to you?” called Morgaine..

“You cannot hear?” he asked, surprised. The cousin nearest him just grinned, and he saw her teeth were very sharp.

“It is you they mean to speak with, blood to blood, kin to kin. My ears cannot comprehend such speech,” replied Morgaine, seemingly unperturbed. “You have a power that I cannot match in this, Colan Carnbrea. There are not many who can claim such at thing.”

The nearest of his cousins drew her hands away and settled back, as if resting on her haunches. The water could have been little more than a yard deep, yet she was hidden in it almost to her shoulders. Did she draw it up around herself like a garment?

Why have you come now, Cousin?
She, they, asked with that silent voice.
You fled us before.

Regretfully, Colan knew he had no choice but to tell the truth. “I did not know it was you, before. I thought I heard was my sister, who has cause to wish me dead.”

They did not look one to another as a cluster of human beings might, but kept their unfathomable gazes on him.
Ah!
They sighed.
And why do you return to us now? Why with Morgaine?

He wavered for a moment. As strong as the welcome he felt among the
morverch
was
,
the feelings that welled up in him in Morgaine's company echoed through him just as strongly. “I owe her greatly.”