Chapter Text
No one can break an ocean,
darling, all you are doing,
is breaking the glass that is holding you back,
going deeper into your own depths,
discovering yourself in pockets
of the most somber waves,
rebuilding your heart with coral,
with seaweed, with moon colored sand dust.
~from The Ocean You by Nikita Gill
Chapter One
Springtime, Eilonwy mused, wiggling her bare toes into the dewy prickle of new grass, was a wonder that never grew old.
Which was odd, seeing how it happened every year, at the same time and in the same way. But there it was. She tipped her head back and drank the air, lungs brimming with loam and the bright tang of green shoots spearing their way into the sunlight. The orchard hummed with a million bees, drunk with the sweetness of apple bloom. Robins and sparrows, returned from their sojourns south, quarreled over nesting spaces and flirted overhead. Warmth poured down from the sky, a blue field grazed by clouds soft as new lambs.
Eilonwy paused on the way to the grazing chicken flock to admire the graceful shape of her favorite apple tree, its boughs lifting armfuls of white frills like a court lady hitching her skirts for a dance. Oh, to be in those branches this minute! She’d have to take time later, after chores were done, to have a climb. Just now there were eggs to gather.
“They’ve come!”
Taran’s shout interrupted her reverie, and she turned in surprise as rapid footfalls announced his approach; the boy vaulted a low stone wall, prompting an explosion of outraged hens.
“Mind the chicks!” Eilonwy yelped, as he stumbled and danced to avoid the scattering balls of peeping fluff scrambling after their mothers. Such a clumsy display would ordinarily make him cross with embarrassment, but now he only laughed as he regained his balance, eyes aglow.
“They’ve come!” he repeated, bursting with the thrill of bearing important news.
“Who?”
Kaw, sweeping in over his shoulder, cackled, “Rovers!”
Taran’s grin widened at her gasp of surprise. “Yes!” he said. “The caravans are back, after more than two years! Camped just north of here, not an hour’s ride out. Coll is preparing the wagon, and we’re to visit this very day!”
A delighted tremor passed over her, inspired as much by his demeanor as the prospect of meeting the roaming foreigners about whom she had heard so many tales. “Does this mean new clothes at last?” Eilonwy asked, shooing Kaw away from the egg basket.
Taran laughed. “Oh, let him have one. It’s he that spotted them and came to tell us.” He held his arm out and the crow lit upon it, bobbing with delight at his own cleverness. “Yes, linens and woolens and everything you can think of, and more that you haven’t. Make haste and gather up anything you want to trade, and pack a cloak and shoes in case of weather. We’ll likely stay the night.”
And he was off, leaving her as buzzing as the bee-filled orchard. Hastily she finished her duties and scrambled back to the cottage.
Gathering her things took but a moment; she had little of value. There were her beautiful gown and silk slippers from Caer Dathyl, long outgrown—too impractical to have been worn on the farm but too fine for the rag bin—plus a few bunches of herbs and mushrooms she’d foraged and dried, and a quartz crystal she’d found at the spring. Perhaps someone among the Rovers would have a use for things with magical properties. She bundled them all inside a cloak and tied the bundle with her sandal thongs, tucking them inside. No sense wearing shoes unless she must.
Taran, waiting by the wagon, paced around it, boot heels drumming the turf. “Finally!” he breathed, as she approached, darting forward to snatch her pack and toss it into the wagon bed, already loaded with trading goods: cheese, hard cider, herbs, turnips, sacks of barley, whittled wooden spoons, and tanned leather.
Gurgi bounded in frantic loops, yipping, until Coll’s calm “saddle the horses” dropped like an anchor through the chaos. Melynlas and Lluagor, infected with their masters’ impatience, frisked and danced, reluctant to stand still, while placid Mefusen merely flicked his tail at stray flies as Coll hitched him up. At last all was ready, and the little company set out, hearts glad and tongues loose beneath the noonday sun.
Joy rode alongside them, buoyed by spring warmth and color, by a renewed sense of companionship. Eilonwy sighed. How lovely to be riding out on such a day… to anticipate something new… to have Taran acting like himself. For months, he’d been tongue-tied around her, cheeks coloring at nothing at all, infuriating in the most inexplicable ways. But today words spilled out like grain from a split sack, easy as they had the first year of her sojourn at Caer Dallben. He laughed at her dry remarks and tossed a few bantering barbs back, traded memories with Coll of previous years’ visits to the camp, and shouted encouragement to Gurgi, who had elected to make the journey on his own feet. Coll whistled as he drove, and Kaw drifted overhead, a scrap of black rag upon the breeze.
Before long, the tents and wagons of the Rovers appeared between a gap in the slopes, and Eilonwy exclaimed in delight. “Oh, look at all the colors! Like someone scattered bits of rainbows.”
Within moments of arrival, they were mobbed by cheerful Rover youths. Two boys and a trio of girls—dark-headed, rosy-cheeked, clad in garments as vibrant as their painted wagons and jingling with metal ornaments—gathered around them. The girls cooed over Lluagor’s glossy chestnut coat and Eilonwy’s fire-edged braids, pounced upon her bundle and admired its contents, and clucked at her threadbare gown with theatrical pity. The musical, lilting cadence of their speech carried over from their own tongue to the common one, and Eilonwy stood enchanted at the sound of it. She turned from one to the next in bewilderment, uncommonly shy at so much attention.
Next to her, Taran had clapped hands and slapped shoulders with the boys, but seemed not to know what to do with himself as the girls gathered around him. Kaw perched upon his shoulder and squawked out every word he could think of, prompting loud squeals of delight. Coll, having anchored the wagon, stood up straight, looking amused at the commotion. “Get on with you both,” he admonished, with a grin. “It’s time you learned how to get along with folks your own age, whatever.”
The Rovers needed no further encouragement. The girls seized Eilonwy’s hands and pulled her through a succession of wagons and booths, dazzling her eyes with their wares. Not since Caer Dathyl had such plenty spilled before her. She meandered past tables heaped with polished blades, tooled leather gleaming like river stones, ribbons fluttering like bright banners in the wind. Jewelry, fabrics, piles of crockery, goblets of copper and even glass…where did they get it all?
One of the boys, whose bold manner she had marked at his first greeting, noticed her admiration of a velvet ribbon sewn with tiny silver bells. He took it up with a beguiling grin and knelt before her. “‘Tis for your pretty ankles,” he explained, motioning for her foot. “Come, I’ll tie it on for ye.”
He was a handsome lad, brawny and sun-browned, flashing a rakish smile white enough to shame snow. She had been warned that every Rover kindness came wrapped around the prospect of a sale, but the mischief in his brilliant grey eyes set a challenge impossible to refuse. On impulse, she hoisted her bare foot upon his knee. Warm fingers slid the ribbon onto her ankle and fastened it with a soft cinch.
“And now,” he said, “to dance the choscloigini, ye kick, like so!” He swung her foot in a tight arc with a sudden hitch, and the bells chimed like Fair Folk music. “Sure now,” said he, with a wink, “ye’ve the knack for it already.”
One of the girls said something in their tongue that sent giggles rippling through the trio. Three more be-ribboned ankles flashed from beneath their fluttering skirts and stamped out a quicksilver rhythm while the boy clapped. “If ye stay this eve,” he suggested, coy grin widening, “we’ll teach ye the rest.”
Suddenly Taran loomed over her shoulder, a hatchet clutched in one tight fist. He glowered at the boy and snapped, “We aren’t staying.”
Eilonwy jerked her foot away, heat flooding her cheeks. “Did Coll change his mind?” she demanded, annoyed at such authoritative declaration. “You said we’d stay the night, and that there’d be songs and stories.”
“Aye!” The Rover boy vaulted up, slapping Taran’s back hard enough to make him stagger. “Music, dancing, magic! Ye must stay!”
She might have laughed at Taran’s spluttering outrage had the mood not soured so fast. He shrugged off the friendly grip, shoulders stiff. “We’ve got chores,” he muttered. Behind him, two of the girls nudged each other. One whispered; both tittered, drawing his attention.
They were identical: a matched storm of black curls, flashing green eyes, rainbow ribbons, and silver bangles. Before Taran could pivot, they flanked him, fingers plucking his sleeves, voices tumbling over each other in a duet of vivacious protest. “Nae, ye must stay, lad! Chores there will always be, but camp’s a rare treat! Is it dancing ye fear? We’ll show y’every step.”
They herded him past Eilonwy, enthusing about his height, his broad shoulders, what a graceful partner he’d be. He made no protest. After a few moments of overwhelmed silence, his mouth twitched into a reluctant grin, ears pinking at every compliment. His stride lengthened into a jaunty gait that was almost a swagger, while Kaw strutted along his forearm like a feathered lord, tail fanned, screeching nonsense that sent the girls into fresh peals.
Eilonwy’s stomach writhed like wool over a fire. The Rover boy dangled a copper bracelet; she barely saw it. All she noted were hands brushing Taran’s arms, playful shoves, the girls orbiting him like moths, bumping into him as they maneuvered him about. Like a ship being steered, she thought disdainfully—then, with even more disgust: and he likes it.
Sparks prickled under her nails, scarlet and angry. With a furious huff she spun away, plunging between wagons until the camp’s clamor faded behind her.
A wall of dead brambles barred her path and she snarled a single word, palms snapping forward. Golden fire answered, the thorns erupting into white-hot lace. Blistering heat slapped her cheeks and sparks whirled like angry bees. She fed the blaze her rage until her ribs no longer rattled, then pinched the flames between finger and thumb—gone, leaving only a curl of smoke that drifted, harmless, toward the cook-fires. No alarm, no spread. Progress, she thought, the word hard like iron in her mind. Even Dallben admitted she had attained excellent control over the last year—over this particular talent, at any rate.
She drifted back among the booths, scuffing the dust, kicking at nothing. Stupid, she thought—stupid to care that Taran preened for two prattling magpies. She’d watched him behave like a fool often enough; why should today vex her more than any other?
There he stood, alone with Gurgi, the Rover swarm vanished. Copper implements gleamed on a table; nearby, a young woman hammered by a forge, sparks leaping; beside her a gray and grizzled old granddam puffed her pipe, eyes sharp as awls.
Eilonwy marched up to him. “Explain all that nonsense,” she hissed, voice low enough that the old woman's pipe did not falter. “You talked all morning about songs and stories and the wonders of the Rovers, and now you’re itching to plow?”
He ignored the question, instead rattling a fistful of copper bracelets under her nose. “Here. You seem to be quite interested in jewelry. Shall I fetch your friend over to buckle them on?”
Heat flooded her face, half mortification, half a treacherous spark of pleasure at his jealousy. She slapped the bracelets away. “If my ankle offends you, Taran of Caer Dallben”—she thrust her foot forward, bells chiming like tiny accusations—“say it plain. You know very well Coll gave us leave to choose what we liked, so long as we had what was needed.”
Taran’s gaze flicked to the ribbon, then away, his cheeks scarlet. He rounded the table, snatching a hand-mirror. Sunlight slid off the copper like a thrown knife. He tilted it, caught his own face, and the scowl softened in surprise. Eilonwy wondered if he recalled the twins’ syrupy compliments, and her gut knotted again.
“‘Tis a handsome face,” the smith called out, winking, “but admiring it too long brings sour luck. Show the lady, boy, or ye’ll deserve whate’er befalls ye.”
He flushed deeper, and sheepishly offered Eilonwy the mirror. She took it, with a flicker of curiosity. It had been two years since Caer Dathyl’s polished silver had presented her reflection; still kettle-water and the running brook’s surface had been a poor substitute. The flashing copper disc threw back her face with startling clarity: storm-blue eyes, freckles sprinkled across her cheeks, a full mouth, a sharp chin. She scowled at the pink specks dotting her nose—new-moon curses, plain as day. Lovely.
The granddam rasped a string of liquid syllables, gnarled finger jabbing at Eilonwy’s throat. The smith paused mid-strike, eyes narrowing at the crescent pendant glinting above her frayed neckline. “Sea-witches’ blood?” she translated, hammer hovering.
Eilonwy jerked, a shiver skittering down her spine. “Sea-witches?” she echoed.
The smith nodded, and tapped her own throat where a necklace would lie. “Moira asks if ye’re one of them.”
Eilonwy looked at the old woman in wonder. “I’ve never heard them called that. But… my mother was an enchantress. All my ancestors were enchantresses--Daughters of Llyr, the Sea People.”
The smith translated; the old woman sucked her pipe until the bowl glowed, then crooked a claw. Eilonwy stepped close. Pale eyes sharpened, bright as new steel, and fingers like winter twigs brushed a lock of her hair, lifting it to the light. A note of surprise floated upon the next stream of foreign speech, as tangible as the smoke that accompanied it.
“She says ye favor a young lady she knew,” the smith murmured. “Back with another clan. A girl came, with hair like yours, and that moon pendant. Travelled with her man.”
Eilonwy’s scalp prickled, and her pulse throbbed at her wrists and throat. “What clan? When? How long ago?”
They traded words. “Far from here, up near the northwest coast. Fifteen, sixteen years ago, maybe. Some of our folk knew him, said he’d traveled wit’ us before. He spoke our tongue, though no blood of ours. No tellin’ where they are now.”
Taran had come to stand near, curiosity eclipsing his sulk. Eilonwy unconsciously tugged at the old woman’s sleeve. “Oh—tell me of them! What was she like?”
Another exchange. “Lovely as the dawn, Moira says, with the manners of a grand lady, though they was almost in rags. But kind. Helped where she could.”
Eilonwy swallowed. “And…the man?”
Moira chuckled when the question was put to her, and patted Eilonwy’s hand with her shaky claw. Her pipe tilted toward Taran, and the smith grinned. “As comely as yer lad here, but sun to his shadow. Golden-haired, and quick-fingered, and clever. Says he could charm folks right out of their shoes with his stories.” They exchanged another round of speech. “They wouldn’a speak o’ their past. Running from trouble, it looked like. Soft wit’ one another as newlyweds are. She carried a babe, near full to her time. Never named herself a witch, but it were common enough knowledge what that moon meant. Moira says they were good to her.”
Taran’s hand touched her shoulder, warm and steady. Eilonwy whirled to look at him, stricken. His eyes were wide. “Do you think—?” he stammered.
“It must have been,” she gasped. “It must! Oh, if only this were the same camp! Is there any more?” she asked, turning back to the two women, but after a final chattering exchange the younger shrugged.
“‘Tis all she remembers. ‘Twas your hair caught her eye, but she says ye have her way about you, too. Were she kin?”
“I think so,” Eilonwy whispered.
Taran’s fingers tightened. “She lost her parents young,” he told the women. Pity softened the smith’s face; Moira reached, cupped Eilonwy’s cheek with a trembling palm, and spoke.
The young woman pressed the copper mirror into Eilonwy’s hands. “She says to keep it, and ye shall see your mam’s face every time ye take a look.”
“Oh.” Eilonwy’s throat closed like a fist. “I don’t think…we’ll have enough…”
Moira shook her head, and leaned forward, thumping her pipe on the table. “A gift,” she grunted, speaking directly to her for the first time. “For keep.”
Eilonwy gulped, and clutched the thing to her chest, the lump in her throat blocking all the questions she wanted to ask; they had always been paths that led to nowhere and disappeared, and she feared now they would do the same, despite this new bend. “Thank you,” she managed, and the next moment the young people swooped upon them again, dragging her away to admire skeins of dyed yarn.
Desperate as she was to think over what she had learned, she had no chance now. Rover children learned salescraft before speech, and this troop, wise from their previous failure, had changed tactics: divide and conquer. The boys shooed Taran and Gurgi toward leather and steel, while the girls took her in hand, covering her confusion with action, driving troublesome thoughts to the back of her mind with their merriment.
She would, perhaps, have preferred weaponry to the jewelry and trifles they paraded before her, but her protests drowned amidst their clamor. She found, nevertheless, that she could not be angry—not even with the twins; they were too good-humored, too eager to entertain. They took no offense when she refused any trinket, merely set it aside and moved on to the next thing, by all appearances so glad of her company that it was immaterial whether she agreed to any of their bargains.
All scattered to their wagons as the sun slanted gold, and she staggered to Coll with arms full of linen goods, ribbons and beads braided into her hair, bells singing with every step. A scarlet sash was knotted at her waist, and a shining new dagger tucked into its folds. At sight of her, Coll threw his head back in a bellow of laughter.
“Is it too much?” she asked, breathless. “I don’t need so much, I know…and it’s not all practical, either, but…”
He waved it off, his bald head pink with pleasure. “Oh, get on with you, cariad. It’s glad I am, to see you hoist colors that match your spirits for once. There’s room for what’s practical and pretty, after last year’s harvest, and you’ve earned a few luxuries.” He glanced over her shoulder. “Taran with you?”
She shook her head, piling her goods upon the ground for his perusal. “He’s off with the boys…trading bruises, probably.”
He looked at her sharply. “How’s that, again?”
“Nothing.” She sat upon the wagon tongue, swinging her feet to keep the silver chiming. “Can we stay the evening? They’ve promised a marvelous time.”
Coll stretched his back, studying the sky. “I had better get back. Don’t like leaving the chores for Dallben; his head is so full of great thoughts he forgets to shut gates behind him. But I won’t break my promise—you two and Gurgi may stay the night, and come back in the morning. Good and early, mind! I’ll expect you all back within an hour of sunrise, whatever, or I’ll know the reason why.” He jerked his head back toward the caravans. “Find our lad and send him to me. I’ll need to settle up soon to get back before dark.”
She found Taran haggling over a hood, new belt gleaming, new boots supple. His gaze snagged on her, slid down the scarlet sash to the silver bells and snapped back to her face, wide and startled, darker than usual. Something fluttered behind her ribs, and she clamped her arms to her sides before they could twirl her like a weather-vane, annoyed at the impulse. When had she ever posed for his appraisal?
“Coll says we can stay the night,” she informed him, “and I should like to see how it all is, once they leave off pushing things at you and just enjoy themselves. Are you going to be cross about it?”
He shouldered his pack. “No. And I’m sorry I was, earlier. I just…” But he could not explain himself, apparently, for he said nothing more, only marching along in silence until they reached the wagon and laid out his goods.
Leaving Coll to barter totals with the elders and return home, they ambled back through the camp in search of supper. “I’ve been thinking,” Taran murmured, “of what that old woman said. I wonder where they are now, that clan.”
She sighed. “I can’t stop thinking of it. But there’s no way to know, is there? These folk seem to go everywhere, even outside the borders. They’re selling things here I’ve never seen—things that must have come from beyond the sea, even.”
“They don’t go that far,” he countered. “They collect goods at the ports and bring them inland.”
“Didn’t they come from across the sea?”
“Yes, but ages ago. Fled Iwerddon because of some war and landed down on the southwest coast, or so the story goes. But they aren’t seafarers by nature or trade.”
Fires bloomed between the wagons, warming the dusk. Gurgi darted from kettle to kettle, nose twitching, trailed by yapping dogs and shrieking toddlers. One escaped, gamboling outside the firelight; a young man gave chase and scooped him skyward, overlaying the child’s peal of laughter with his own playful roar.
Eilonwy realized, after a few moments, that she and Taran had both rooted their feet and stood frozen, watching the scene. She knew he felt the same ache, the same empty longing, and her hand almost reached to grasp his, halting only when she noticed its movement, jerking back in awkward and embarrassed self-consciousness. And yet, why? She examined the emotion in bewilderment.
A clear call from behind interrupted her wistfulness, and she turned to see one of her friends of the morning waving at them from a firelit circle—Niamh, the oldest of the girls, quieter than the twins, with an appealing air of amiable practicality. An elderly man and a handful of children were gathered there as well. “Come!” Niamh said, beckoning. “Ye must sup with us, if ye’re to have enough life for the ceilidh tonight.”
Taran hesitated, but Eilonwy grabbed his arm and pulled him into the group, calling for Gurgi. In no time they were seated and served, the center of lively attention. Questions flew and bounced and tickled. Soon she was relating last year’s tale: the Huntsmen of Annuvin, the Morva crones, the Cauldron’s doom. Taran filled in the gaps, his voice low. Children leaned in, eyes round as moons, as she coaxed the fire into dancing shapes, timed to a flute’s bright piping.
Taran leaned close, between the awed exclamations of the little ones. “Dallben would be cross with you,” he murmured, “using magic so irreverently.”
“Dallben’s always cross,” Eilonwy retorted, “but he’s not here, is he?” His brows shot up in amusement, and a wicket spark lit her chest at her own rebellion.
Dusk folded over them, and voices gathered at the center of camp, where flutes trilled and drums thumped out experimental beats. Niamh led them toward the sounds, until they joined a central congregation in a clearing, where a bonfire leapt skyward.
Eilonwy looked around in delight. At least two hundred Rovers gathered there, of all ages. Other locals, come to trade, dotted the crowd like beads. Only in the Hall of Caer Dathyl had she ever seen such a press of life.
And such life! Such noisy, exuberant, colorful life. Children wove tumultuous games among the crowd. Adults passed flasks, settled on blankets on the ground. Infants gurgled from hip to hip. Hands clasped, arms looped, voices called names and greetings and affection. Niamh was snatched from behind by a tall youth, who buried his face in her neck; she swore in the Rover tongue, laughing, and spun into his arms. Their kiss unfurled, slow and shameless, gilded by firelight.
Eilonwy gaped at this display, never before encountered. Her face burned; she wished the ground would swallow her, wished she were anywhere else...yet, she could not tear her gaze away. The couple parted at last, and Niamh caught her staring and grinned. “Here’s my Oisin,” she said, tugging him forward. “It’s wed we’re to be, this summer, soon as he finishes buildin’ our wagon.”
Oisin extended his hand to them as they stammered out their names. Neither he nor Niamh appeared the least bit aware of anything unusual in their conduct, nor had anyone else taken any notice. Eilonwy’s pulse still hammered. Was she the odd one, then, for being so shocked?
From the corner of her eye—she would not look at him—she saw Taran reel up his dropped jaw like a fisherman snatching a trout from the river. “Best wishes,” he managed, hoarse as a rusted hinge, and clearly could think of nothing else.
Normally, she read his feelings as clear as cloud-shapes, now they crashed together in a tangle she couldn’t sort, or perhaps was too muddled, herself, to unweave. Gurgi spared her the effort by wedging himself between them, settling with a triumphant grunt, gnawing on a bone rescued from someone’s supper. His warm animal presence and mildly offensive smell formed an invisible wall, comfortably prosaic, a strange relief.
Gradually, the scattered twangs and whistles of various instruments knit themselves into a spirited tune. Shouts of approval rose around her and swelled into a chorus everyone else seemed to know by heart. She caught none of the words, but the thrum of drums and the bright, lilting whistle were enough to seize her; grateful for the distraction, Eilonwy clapped along and cheered when the final notes flared out. Another tune followed, then a story—a rousing tale of a wicked giant brought low by trickery—and then another song, in a rhythm that set her toes tapping before she realized it.
Niamh sprang to her feet and seized Eilonwy’s hand. “Choscloigini!” she cried. “Come, ye must join us!”
Any protest was swept away at once, as a dozen other youths converged and swept her toward the center of the circle. The girls surrounded her, hitching up their skirts to reveal bell-draped bare feet; their movements chimed together as they demonstrated the steps. Nothing was difficult: a repeating pattern of stamps and kicks, and the quick timing of when to reach for a partner’s hand.
“But don’t fret,” one assured her, “for it’s his duty to be sure ye’re in the right place!”
And then she was flung into the bright, jostling lineup—laughing with the rest, giddy with the delight of music and motion. No one minded her looseness with the steps; whenever she faltered, another hand caught hers and tugged her seamlessly back into rhythm. Black curls and streaks of color flashed past like dreams. Though partners switched often, Eilonwy found herself repeatedly paired with the boy who had tied her bells that morning; his smile had lost none of its mischievous edge. He stood at her side when the music beat its last echo, and stayed with her as the dancers scattered to make room for the next performer.
“Yer lad’s been watchin’ ye the whole time,” he murmured, leaning close with a wink and a jerk of his chin toward the crowd.
Automatically, her gaze snapped to where he indicated. There stood Taran at the edge of the firelight, looking as though someone had struck him and dashed off before he could respond.
She was already hot from dancing, and could hardly blush harder, but— “He’s not my lad,” Eilonwy muttered through her teeth.
“Is he not, now?” The boy plucked a flask from the passing hand of a kinsman, took a languid sip, and passed it to her, grin turning sly. “Then why does he scowl so fierce to see ye enjoyin’ yerself with me?”
“I’m sure I have no idea.” She raised the flask to her lips, expecting water; instead, sweetness and fire flooded her mouth. She gulped and spluttered. “Good Llyr—what is that?”
He laughed outright. “Blackberry wine. Never tried it?”
“No.” She took a more cautious sip, rolling it across her tongue before swallowing. Syrupy warmth spread down her throat. “It’s marvelous.”
“Just a nip, though,” he said, eyes twinkling as he passed the flask along. “Strong stuff, for them not used to it. Now then—” He extended a hand toward the circle. “Shall we make him frown some more?”
Her gaze flicked to Taran again. He hadn’t moved: still planted at the edge of the firelight, glowering like a thundercloud in boots. Why didn’t he join the dance himself, if it vexed him so to see her partnered with another? Let him scowl until harvest, for all she cared. She tossed her head, turned back to the boy, and took his offered hand with a smile.
The music shifted, coiling into a rhythm that tugged at her limbs, and she let him pull her once more into the firelit circle.
They taught her a second dance, and a third, and all the while she felt Taran’s gaze fixed on her... was it this, or the dance itself, that scorched her cheeks, that flooded her with such radiant heat? She flung herself all the more fiercely into each reel because he watched, driven by a half-conscious urge to provoke a response--any response. Other boys swept past, caught her hands, spun her until she was breathless with movement, with the startling thrill of their palms against hers and the confident slide of their arms at her waist.
If Taran weren’t so stubborn, he might be the one to do so.
If he even wanted to.
But no. There he stood. Like a stone. A frowning stone.
The moon rode high, a pale slice like a thumbnail paring, when the last song faded. The Rovers called their good nights and drifted toward their wagons in loose, sleepy clusters: mothers carrying limp children, fathers hauling those who should have been asleep but weren’t. Eilonwy looked for Taran, but he had slipped away with Gurgi in the final press of bodies.
Rover youth closed around her as the crowd thinned. “Ye’ve a place to sleep?” Niamh asked, falling in beside her as she wandered toward the edge of camp, flanked on one side by Oisin and the twins, and on the other by Fiachra, her irrepressible dance partner.
“Near our horses,” she said, for Coll had insisted on it. Fiachra’s mouth curled in a sardonic half-smile.
“Or ye might find ’em taken in the mornin’, eh? We know what folks say about us, but it an’t truth.”
“I didn’t think so at all,” she said, indignant. “Only we’ve got to leave very early. But it’s all right. I’m used to sleeping outdoors.”
“’Tis the only proper place!” He winked. “Ye’d fit right in wit’ us.”
She ignored the bait. “Don’t you sleep in the wagons?”
Their laughter rang out. “Only when the weather drives us in,” Oisin said. “Wagons is for old ones and babes-in-arms.”
“And newly-weds,” one twin added wickedly, shoving Niamh into her betrothed. Neither looked offended. Their friends whooped and whistled at the subsequent display of affection, as if it was a performance staged for them.
Eilonwy drifted to the back of the group, once again embarrassed yet fascinated. The copper-booth woman’s words whispered through her mind: as soft with one another as newlyweds are. Was this what she’d meant?
They reached the clearing where the horses were picketed. Melynlas shone pale as a ghost in the moonlight. Near him crouched two dark shapes: Taran and Gurgi, already settled on the ground. Eilonwy hesitated, grateful for the kindness these youths had shown her, yet wishing she knew how to politely dismiss them. Taran would not welcome them. She was not sure he would welcome her.
She turned to them earnestly. “I’ve got to leave by sunrise tomorrow, but…oh, I’ve enjoyed myself! And not just this evening—the whole day. Taran’s told me for years what it’s like to visit your folk, but it’s been better than I imagined.”
The girls exclaimed, kissed her cheeks, promised to look for her next time their caravan passed this way. Fiachra took her hand and bowed over it with dramatic gallantry. “‘Tis a pity,” he declared—loudly, for Taran’s benefit—“Rumor 'tis that ye might have been born in a camp! —yet here y’are, leavin’ us already. Are ye that set on breakin’ me heart?”
“Get on, ye daft rooster!” A twin cuffed him, and the sisters shoved him until he lost hold of her hand. “Don’t be listenin’ to a thing he says,” Niamh told her, grinning. “He speaks such blarney to every pretty lass, every stop we make.”
Eilonwy’s pride recoiled, but Fiachra’s rakish grin, unrepentant, made her laugh instead, her heart lightening. After bidding them all good night, she wove between the dozing horses until she reached her own. Taran leaned against a heap of tack, eyes shut; Gurgi snored at his feet.
She would have hesitated to rummage through the pack, but his breathing—too stiff, too deliberate—told her he was wide awake. She drew out her cloak and a spare blanket, spread them on the cool grass, and flopped down with a contented sigh. “Oh, it’s been marvelous! They’re not like anyone I’ve ever met. I never knew it could be such fun to be around other young folks.”
“Yes,” Taran grumbled, abandoning the ploy of sleep. “It’s been very dull for you the last couple of years, hasn’t it? What a shame there aren’t dozens of such admirers at Caer Dallben to keep you entertained all the time.”
She ignored the jab. “Can you imagine living within such a clan, always surrounded by your family and friends? Think how delightful!”
“Think how noisy,” he said. “One person who never stops chattering is quite enough.”
This nettled her. “Better than one who sulks about and won’t join in the fun or…or do anything,” she snapped, “except stand about looking like they’re smelling horse-apples! If that person feels left out, they’ve only themselves to blame.”
She expected anger—would have welcomed it—but he merely muttered, “Better get some sleep,” and turned his back.
Eilonwy scowled at the stars. Let him be difficult, then. She pulled her cloak around her, and her bauble thumped lightly against her arm. Automatically she grasped it, cool and comforting in her palm. Her mother’s gift.
Mother. Had she danced in the Rover firelight as her daughter had tonight? Laughed at the same stories? Stolen away with her lover, to share kisses and plans for the future, like Niamh and Oisin?
Her father, Moira said, had spoken the Rovers’ language, but wasn’t one of them… here was mystery, indeed. Where had he come from? What had brought them to a camp? And what had happened after she was born? Achren’s claims about the reasons her kinfolk had sent her to Spiral Castle were a lie that had long since unraveled. Gwydion had told her plainly: she had distant relations, but none knew she existed. Her parents had eloped, vanished, and were presumed lost in the cataclysm that destroyed their homeland.
So many questions, and not a soul left to answer them.
A frustrated groan escaped before she could swallow it. She heard Taran shift, then his irritated voice: “All right. I’m sorry I didn’t tie bells on and go jumping about like a…”
“It’s not you,” she said, so sharply he fell silent. She clenched her teeth, trying to smother the heat rising in her chest. The silence swelled until it felt louder than shouting. “Sorry,” she whispered at last. “I didn’t mean to snap. Be a grump if you like; I don’t care.” Not quite true, but… “I was just…thinking of that old woman’s story again. Wishing I knew more about it.”
She sensed the tug-of-war between his pride and his better nature; at length he sighed and rolled to face her. “It’s more than you’ve had, before, at least.”
“Yes. It’s something.”
More than he has, she admitted to herself, guilt threading through her annoyance. The stars gripped her gaze, but from the corner of her vision she saw him studying her. “Who would have thought? All the times you’ve told me how marvelous the Rovers are, never knowing I’d been with them before.”
“You really think you were born among them?”
“You heard what she said. Mother was already expecting me.”
“How do you know it was you? Perhaps you’ve a brother or sister you’ve never dreamed of.”
The thought jolted her. “I…I never considered that. I suppose it’s possible, but I doubt it. She said it was around sixteen years ago, and that’s close enough to my age, if Dallben’s guess is true.”
“Younger, then,” Taran said. “They may have had more, after you.”
“Maybe.” Emptiness ached through her like a bruise. “But somehow that makes it worse. Because that would mean there are even more lost.”
He made a low sound of agreement, and she reminded herself—again—that he knew this same sorrow.
“Well,” he said, “one day we can go search out other caravans, perhaps even the one they joined, if it still exists. Surely some still live who would remember. I should think your mother,” he added, slowly, “might be difficult to forget.”
She absorbed this, warmed by a fluttering curiosity. Gwydion had once said she was very like her mother, and had called Angharad of Llyr unforgettable in a tone that suggested a regard stronger than mere diplomacy. But Taran had no notion of such subtlety, and rarely paid her compliments. Did he mean to now? She wondered, if she turned toward him—would he keep looking, or cough and pretend he hadn’t been staring?
But she couldn’t quite make herself move. Soon his breathing deepened. A glance confirmed he’d fallen asleep: lashes against his cheeks, brows unknitted at last.
So that was the amount of interest he took in the subject, was it?
With an indignant huff she rolled away from him and yanked her cloak over her head, curling protectively around her own ribs. Why had she expected anything else? And what did it matter? No one had asked for his compliments. Meaningless things, anyhow; Fiachra had showered her with them all day—just empty, harmless nonsense to turn the heads of girls sillier than she.
And she’d smiled and blushed like an utter simpleton, she realized, writhing internally. Perhaps she was just as silly as the rest.
But…oh, why wouldn’t Taran join in the dance?
Good Llyr, she would not cry over this. She would go to sleep like a sensible person, unmoved by the ridiculous, incomprehensible behaviors of boys.
Stupid, stubborn Assistant Pig-Keepers.