Prologue
Marina
It is the first day of November, and today, someone will die.
My father is on the beach below the sun-burned cliffs, and the sea churns furiously, singing its lulling song. His uisce stallion is black and swift, darker than pitch, a single streak on the murderous white beach. His horse seems to fly past the others, as if it has wings. Then the wind turns and betrays him.
Salt tinges my lips up here on the cliff, and I watch my father struggle to keep the stallion straight. The horses have smelled the ocean and its magic, and have thrust themselves towards their love. Father does much better than the men behind him, whose horses are in a frenzy of despair and longing for the sea. The rider behind him is bucked out of the saddle and he is thrown face-first into the waves. The horse dives into the water, and the frothy sea turns red, red, red. Foam sweeps the shore, lining the sand with pink and white and grey.
I'm proud as my father's stallion runs straight and true, but the other contenders have passed him by several lengths, and I frown. Several years ago, he would have won by a margin as great as the sea he rides beside. But now, he no longer places in first.
I watch as he crosses the finish line, not first nor second, but fifth. The dark gaze is hidden in shadow, but I can tell that his mood is the same color of the sky: gray. He's like a rock in the wind. He ignores the cheering crowd and swings off his capall easily, patting the stallion's blaze, calming him and watching his squared, sea-crazed eyes that weep the ocean.
The wind sings against the cliffs, drowned in cheering and celebration, and I watch my father who gazes out to the ocean, the sea glinting mysteriously, seductively. His eyes I cannot see, but I can see he is distracted. Mournful. Wistful. Remembering.
The sea granted his wish once. It will not grant it again.
