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


Springtime, Eilonwy thought, sliding her bare toes through the cool prickle of young grass, was a thing one might never, never tire of.

It was odd, that, seeing how it happened every year, at the same time and in the same way. Yet there it was. She threw her head back and inhaled rapturously, filled herself with the smell of damp earth and green things coming alive again under the sun. The pleasant hum of bees reacquainting themselves with wildflowers mingled with the twitter of robins and sparrows returned from sojourns south. The breeze was mild, the sun warm upon her face, the morning sky a blue field grazed by clouds soft as new lambs.

She paused as she entered the chicken run to admire the graceful shape of her favorite tree in the orchard, its branches lifting masses of fragrant pinkish-white frill to the sky, beckoning her. 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; he vaulted the run fence and hens scattered, clucking in alarm.

"Mind the chicks!" Eilonwy yelped, as he stumbled and danced to avoid several balls of peeping fluff scrambling after their mothers. But despite a display of clumsiness that should ordinarily make him cross with embarrassment, he only laughed as he regained his balance, eyes aglow with excitement.

"They've come!" he repeated, bursting with the importance of bearing news.

"Who?"

Kaw, sweeping in over his shoulder, cackled raucously. "Rovers!"

Taran's grin widened at her gasp of surprise. "Yes!" he enthused. "They've come again, 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 go this very day!"

A little thrill swept through her, perhaps inspired as much by his demeanor as the prospect of a meeting with the roaming foreigners about whom she had only ever heard tales. "Does this mean new clothes at last?" Eilonwy asked, shooing the crow away from the egg basket.

Taran laughed. "Oh, let him have one. It's he that spotted them and came to tell us." He pushed his arm out and Kaw lit upon it, preening and bobbing delightedly at his 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 tingling with excitement. Hastily she finished her duties and raced 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. She took a few bunches of herbs and mushrooms she'd foraged and dried, more exotic than those grown in the garden; perhaps there would be someone among the Rovers with a use for those with magical properties. And a quartz crystal she'd found last summer near the spring. She bundled them all inside a cloak and tied the bundle about with her sandal thongs, tucking them inside. No sense wearing shoes unless she must.

Taran was alive with impatience as she joined him and Coll in the barnyard. His enthusiasm infected Gurgi, who leapt about like a squirrel until Coll steadied him with an order to go saddle the horses. Together they all loaded the wagon with trading goods: cheese and hard cider, herbs and turnips, sacks of barley, whittled spoons and tanned leather.

And then they were off, under the noonday sun, with gladdened hearts and loosened tongues.

Taran talked freely, eager to impart all they might see and do. Eilonwy was as glad of his acting like himself as she was at the journey. He'd been so odd lately, so maddening, in ways that were new and profoundly confusing. For years now, they had been constant companions, their friendship the vital center of her new life. But for the past few months, he had treated her with an awkwardness that made her demand explanation, to attempt to drag words out of him with all the vigor of a robin yanking worms from the ground. But she could not, herself, find words to describe what piqued her, so there was no use expecting him to explain it.

But now he chattered as of old, laughing at her dry remarks and tossing a few bantering barbs back at her, trading memories with Coll of previous years' visits to camp, shouting encouragement to Gurgi, who loped alongside them. They rode side-by-side, Coll whistling as he drove, Kaw drifting overhead like a scrap of black rag upon the breeze. It seemed no time before the tents and wagons of the Rovers appeared between a gap in the slopes, and Eilonwy exclaimed in delight at the sight. "Oh, the colors! Like someone scattered bits of rainbow."

Within moments of picketing their horses, they were cheerfully mobbed by Rover youth. Two boys and a trio of girls—dark-headed, rosy-cheeked, clad in garments as colorful as their painted wagons—gathered around them. They exclaimed over the beauty of Melynlas and Lluagor, commented admiringly upon Eilonwy's hair, and tsked over her shabby state of dress, chattering to one another in their own language. Their speech had a musical, lilting cadence that carried over even when they spoke the common tongue, and Eilonwy stood enchanted at the mere sound of it. She turned from one to the next, feeling uncharacteristically shy at so much attention.

Next to her, Taran had genially clapped hands with the boys. He seemed not to know what to do with himself as the girls gathered around him to admire Kaw, who was perched upon his shoulder and squawking out every word he could think of. Coll, busy anchoring the wagon, laughed at their bewilderment and told them to go and learn to enjoy themselves with folks their own age.

The Rover youth needed no further encouragement. Eilonwy's hands were taken by two of the girls, who pulled her through a succession of wagons with booths attached, dazzling her eyes with available wares. Not since Caer Dathyl had she witnessed so much wealth —tables of polished weapons, of shaped and embossed leather sheaths, purses, pouches, sandals and boots. Jewelry in silver and copper dangled on display; ribbons and scarves of every hue fluttered in the breeze. There were lengths of woven linen, dyed and undyed, felted wool, spun thread on spools, sewing needles, shears, garden implements, leather-working tools, bowls of wood and crockery, cups and goblets of copper and even glass, shimmering in the sunlight.

One of the boys, whose rather bold manner she had marked at his first greeting, noticed Eilonwy admiring a velvet ribbon sewn with tiny silver bells. He took it from her with a beguiling grin and knelt before her. "'Tis for your pretty ankles," he explained, motioning for her to set her foot upon his knee. "Come, I'll tie it on for ye."

He was a handsome lad, brawny and sun-browned, possessing a rakish, very white smile and brilliant grey eyes. She knew quite well, having been warned, that every warm gesture the Rovers made was with intent to sell her something, and yet there was that in his twinkling gaze and mischievous grin that imparted a delightful challenge. Impulsively she lifted her bare foot and set it upon his knee, allowing him to fasten the bells around her ankle. "And now," he said, when the ribbon was tied, "to dance the choscloigini , ye kick, like so!" And he took hold of her foot in his warm hand, swinging it in a narrow arc with a sudden hitch, so that the silver chimed like Fair Folk music. "Sure now," said he, twinkling at her, "ye've the knack for it already."

One of the girls, standing at her elbow, said something in their tongue that made the others giggle, and then three more be-ribboned ankles flashed from beneath colorful skirts and stamped out several steps, their bells jingling in unison, as the boy clapped out a rhythm. "If ye stay this evenin'," he suggested, "we'll teach ye the rest."

Suddenly, Taran, who had been looking over hatchets at a nearby booth, was standing at her shoulder, glowering at the boy as though he'd found a use for one of them. "We aren't staying that long," he said shortly. Eilonwy, startled by his abrupt appearance, jerked her foot away and blushed, as though she'd been caught doing something untoward.

"Did Coll say so?" she demanded, instantly annoyed at his authoritative disapproval. "I thought you said we might stay the night. In fact, you said the evening would be splendid fun, full of songs and stories."

"Aye!" The boy leapt up with a laugh and grabbed Taran by the arm, clapping him on the back as if they'd been comrades for years, and swinging him about. "Songs and stories there will be, music and dancing and magic! Ye must stay!"

She would have laughed at Taran's expression, all bewildered outrage, had it not boded so ill for the rest of the day. He shook himself stiffly from the boy's friendly grasp. "We've got to get home for chores," he huffed out, in a voice that seemed to want to choke on itself. Behind his shoulder, Eilonwy saw two of the girls nudging each other as they watched him. One whispered something to the other and both tittered, drawing his attention.

They were pretty pair of creatures, identical, with charming smiles dimpled at the corners, and flashing green eyes. Their long black curls were bound in vivid ribbons, their wrists and ankles glimmering with silver bangles. When Taran turned toward them they bounded forward and flanked him, plucking at his sleeves and guiding him toward the next booth, chattering over one another so quickly and in such similar voices that it was impossible to tell which one was speaking. But together they raised a duet of vivacious protest: "Nay, ye must stay wit' us! Chores there will be, waitin' for ye always; 'tis only rare ye get to visit camp. Is it the dance ye're worried about? No fear, we'll teach ye all ye need."

They hustled him past her, commenting admiringly on his height and slim build and what a fine dance partner he'd make. He made no protest, though whether he were relenting in his resolve or too overwhelmed to speak was impossible to say. Eilonwy felt a sudden irrational impulse to set fire to something. She wrestled it down in confusion, but an odd, unsettling anger simmered at the base of her mind as she followed the noisy group to the next booth.

The Rover boy tried in vain to draw her attention to this or that trinket; she was too preoccupied watching Taran to pay any heed, growing more and more annoyed by the interaction she witnessed. The girls kept touching him, laying hands on his arms to pull him along, pushing him playfully between them as if he were the sought object in a game, bumping into him continually as they maneuvered him about. Like a ship being steered, she thought disdainfully and, with even more disgust: and he likes it. He spoke little, but she could see that he was flattered by the attention, smiling at their jokes, his ears going red at their compliments. There was a jaunty tilt to his posture and the faintest hint of a swagger to his walk. The cocky figure of Kaw, strutting up and down his arms and over his shoulders, flirting his tail feathers and screeching out monosyllabic comments that made the girls squeal with laughter, was the final straw. Her fingertips were sparking with an anger she recognized as dangerous; with a huff of fury Eilonwy whirled and stalked away, ignoring the calls of the group, blindly plunging through the clusters of wagons until she came to the outer edge of the camp.

A tangle of dead and dried-up brambles stopped her progress. She growled out certain words she knew, threw her hands out toward the thicket, flinging the hot, bright focus of her fury into its midst. The thorns erupted into flames, sparks shimmering the air. Blistering heat bathed her face. She stared at the conflagration, letting it vent out her frustration until her breath no longer felt that it would burst her chest. In moments the brambles were ashes, their annihilation so quick that no one in the camp had even raised an alarm at the sudden smoke…just another blaze among dozens of cook-fires, and she had ensured that it did not spread. She could do that, now. Even Dallben admitted that she had made remarkable progress in her control over the last few months.

When the last spark had winked out, she turned back to the camp, meandering slowly between the booths, brooding. Why had she gotten so angry at something so stupid? Who cared if Taran was flattered by a couple of silly girls? Even if he did act ridiculous about it; his being ridiculous was nothing new, and certainly she ought to be used to it by now.

Presently she caught sight of him, alone but for Gurgi, all the Rover youth mysteriously disappeared. He stood before a table laid with various copper tools and ornaments; nearby, a young woman hammered at a small anvil, while a gray and grizzled old granddam sat on a stool, puffing on a pipe and observing all before her.

Eilonwy stomped up to the table, where Taran was fiddling with a selection of spoons. "What did you mean by all that fuss?" she hissed. "You spent all morning talking about the fun tonight, and now suddenly you can't wait to get back to work? I didn't think you were so fond of plowing you'd be in a rush to return to it."

He ignored the question, picking up a bundle of copper bracelets and jingling them at her. "Here. You seem to be quite interested in jewelry. Shall I call that friend of yours over to help you try them on?"

Her face grew hot, but beneath her embarrassment there was a tiny flicker of inconsistent, inexplicable pleasure. Even more confusing! She pushed the bracelets away, glaring at him. "If you're upset about this, Taran of Caer Dallben," she said, pulling her skirts back and pointing out her foot, its ankle still tied with the ribbon and bells, "why don't you come right out and say so. Though why it should bother you, I can't imagine. Didn't Coll say we could pick out a few things we liked, as long as we got what was needed first?"

Taran glanced down at her foot and then quickly looked away, going red and scowling. He moved to the other side of the table and picked up a hand-mirror, its surface polished to a sheen that bounced the sunlight off like a deflected arrow as he turned it in his hand. He gave his reflection a curious glance, and his scowl lightened, as though he hadn't realized it was there until he saw it himself. Eilonwy wondered waspishly if he were thinking of the compliments those doe-eyed girls had paid him.

"'Tis a handsome face," the young woman at the anvil piped up, winking at him, "but 'tis bad luck to admire yourself too long. Show the lady, boy, or ye'll deserve whate'er befalls ye."

He looked at her sheepishly, and Eilonwy took the mirror—admittedly, with a touch of curiosity. She had not seen her own reflection since being at Caer Dathyl two years ago, at least not in anything but the dark stillness of a filled kettle or bucket from the well, which was only so effective. The bright copper threw back her face in startling detail: clear brow, bright blue eyes, a freckled nose, a full mouth, sharp chin. Overall the effect pleased her, but she squinted unhappily at a few tiny pink spots that dotted her nose and cheeks, irritations that returned with dismal regularity at every new moon; she'd never realized they were so visible before.

The old woman with the pipe rasped out a stream of unintelligible syllables, pointing at Eilonwy with a gnarled hand. The younger paused in her hammering to look at her with more interest, and replied in their language. Eilonwy laid the mirror down, feeling rather indignant, but the young woman motioned to her throat, where her crescent pendant dangled above the threadbare neckline of her gown, and said, "She asks if ye're descended of the sea-witches."

Eilonwy started, as a tremulous little thrill ran down her back. She looked at the old woman in wonder. "I've never heard them called that. But Angharad of Llyr was my mother, and an enchantress like all of our line."

The young woman translated, and the elder sucked vigorously on her pipe. She raised her clawed hand again and beckoned to Eilonwy. Her pale eyes seemed to focus better as the girl drew near, growing sharp and bright, and the woman reached out to touch her hair. A note of surprise floated upon the next stream of foreign speech, as tangible as the smoke that accompanied it.

"She says ye look like another she saw once," the young woman explained, her glance growing ever more interested. "Before Moira moved into our camp, she lived wit' a different clan. And there were a girl there, one of the sea-witches she were, with hair and a necklace like yourn."

"Like mine?" Her scalp crinkled, and her pulse leapt into her throat and throbbed at her wrists in excitement. "What camp? When was this; how long ago?"

They traded words. "Old Moira's been wit' us sixteen years, an' it were jus' afore that. Says this girl came to camp wit' her man and they was taken in. Moira had no chance to know 'em well, but some in the camp knew him already. He weren't Rover, but he spoke our tongue. No tellin' where they are now."

Taran, his ire overshadowed by curiosity, had come to stand near, listening almost as intently as she. Eilonwy unconsciously tugged at the old woman's sleeve. "A man? What was he like?"

Moira chuckled when the question was put to her, and patted Eilonwy's hand with her shaky claw. She gestured toward Taran when she spoke, and the young woman laughed. "She says he was nigh as handsome as yer lad here, but as light as he's dark. Tall, and clever wit' his hands, and golden-headed." They exchanged another round of speech. "Seems like they was in trouble, or maybe had just come from it. They wouldn'a speak o' their past. Sad they were, but sweet wit' one another as only newlyweds is. She were expectin' a child soon. They didn't say she were one o' them witches. But it were common knowledge what that moon meant, and she could do some strange things, or so t'was said."

Taran's hand touched her shoulder and Eilonwy whirled to look at him, stricken. His eyes were wide. "Do you think—?"

"It must have been," she gasped. "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 o' speakin', too. Were she kin o' yourn?"

"I think so," Eilonwy whispered, barely audible. Taran glanced at her anxiously.

"She's never known what became of her parents," he explained. The young woman's expression went from curious to pitying, and she spoke again to her companion, who nodded, reached out to touch her hand gently, and spoke again.

The young woman picked up the mirror that had spawned the conversation, and handed it to Eilonwy. "She says to keep it, and ye shall see your mam's face near eno'w, every time ye take a look."

"Oh." Eilonwy sucked in a sob. "I don't think…we'll have enough…"

The old woman shook her head, and leaned forward, gesturing firmly with her pipe. "A gift," she grunted thickly, 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 questions with no answers, paths that led to nowhere and disappeared, and she feared now they would do the same, despite this new bend. "Thank you," she gasped out, and wished desperately there were someplace she might go where she could have a good howl, but at that moment they were descended upon by the young people again, and she was dragged 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 were taught the art of charming a customer from the cradle, and this troop, realizing that their previous method had backfired, now had changed tactics: divide and conquer. The boys shooed Taran and Gurgi toward booths of leather gear, while the girls took her in hand, chasing away her confusion with action. They flattered and teased, holding up colored fabrics to her face to test their effect upon her complexion, sliding bracelets up her arms, tying ribbons into her hair and bright embroidered silks about her hips before she even knew what was happening.

Eilonwy would have rather looked at the leather and weaponry, and felt that she should be annoyed by this fuss…wasn't it like how the ladies had dressed her up at Caer Dathyl, those years ago? She had detested that, yet here she found she could not be angry —not even with the twins whose attention to Taran had so irritated her; she realized, now, it had all been simply part of the game. The girls were blithe, and healthily good-humored. They had no artifice or snobbery; they took no offense when she refused any ornament or garment, merely set it aside and moved her on to the next thing, chattering the while as though they had known her for years, by all appearances so glad of company that it was immaterial whether she agreed to any of their bargains.

The day passed pleasantly, and when her companions scattered to their wagons in late afternoon, she returned to Coll with her arms full of linen goods, ribbons and beads braided into her hair, silver bells upon her feet, a scarlet sash knotted at her waist, and a shining new dagger tucked into its folds. Coll looked her over and laughed loud and delightedly.

"Is it too much?" she asked breathlessly. "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. So what if not everything's practical? We've enough, after last year's harvest, for a few luxuries, and you've earned them by your own hard work." He glanced over her shoulder and then around them expectantly. "Taran with you?"

She shook her head, piling her goods upon the ground for his perusal. "He went off with a load of boys. Probably they're all somewhere giving each other black eyes."

He looked at her sharply. "How's that, again?"

"Nothing." She sat herself upon the wagon tongue, swinging her feet. "Are we going to stay the evening, then? They've promised us 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 caravan. "Find our lad and send him to me. I'll need to settle up soon to get back before dark."

She did so, locating Taran at a booth where he was debating the value of a woolen hood with its proprietor. He had outfitted himself with a new belt and boots, and carried an armful of other odds and ends Coll had sent for.

He seemed in better spirits, and she thought better of asking where the other boys had gone, merely approaching him and passing along Coll's instruction. His swift, admiring glance at the colorful results of her day filled her with an odd impulse to twirl around, the better for his appraisal. She suppressed it in annoyance. When on earth had she ever preened like some idiot bird in front of him?

"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 ruefully. "No. And I'm sorry I was, earlier. I just…" But he could not explain himself, apparently, for he said nothing more on the topic, 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 were, if it were really your parents."

She sighed. "I can't stop thinking of it. But there's no way to know, is there? They 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."

"Doesn't mean they 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."

All around them, families were gathering in front of their wagon steps, stoking cookfires. Gurgi, attracted by the smell of meat roasting, ran from one to the next, provoking mad barking from watchdogs and squeals from children. Near them, a toddler clad in a short grubby tunic escaped from a woman occupied with minding a hanging kettle. The child chased Gurgi as he gamboled past, and a young man raced from the wagon, caught up the youngster and swung him high into the air, eliciting shrieks of laughter.

Eilonwy realized, after a few moments, that she and Taran had both paused and stood frozen, watching the scene. She wondered if he felt the same heavy, squeezing ache in the throat that she did.

A clear call from behind them interrupted her wistfulness, and she turned to see one of her friends of the morning waving at them from her steps — 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 also gathered there around a fire. "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, who came leaping. In no time they were seated and served, the center of lively attention, peppered with questions. Presently, she found herself telling of their adventure the previous year, with Taran interjecting or carrying the narrative at various points. The little ones' eyes popped as the story unfolded, their attention held in rapture at her description of escaping from Huntsmen, bartering with the three powerful old crones in the Marshes of Morva, battling for the cauldron before it was destroyed. For extra effect she demonstrated how she could play with the fire, twisting the flames into shapes before their eyes, making it dance in time to the piping flute one of them produced and played.

Taran leaned over at one point as the children cooed in awe. "Dallben would be cross with you," he murmured, "using your magic so irreverently."

"Dallben's always cross," she retorted, "but he's not here, is he?" His eyes widened in mild, amused shock at such rebellion, and she felt a little thrill of perverse excitement at her own daring.

Dusk was falling like a cloak, and voices trilled from the center of camp, overlaying the sound of flutes warming up and drums given experimental thumps. Niamh and the children scrambled up and led them toward the sounds, until they joined a central congregation in a clearing around a bonfire.

Eilonwy looked around in delight. The Rover caravan numbered well over two hundred, a large portion of which were children and youth. An additional handful of outsiders, others like them who had traveled to barter and stayed to enjoy the fun, were integrated into their midst. She had never seen so many young people in one place; in fact she had never seen so many people gathered anywhere other than a war camp, which was a decidedly different thing.

Children scampered through the crowds, shouting with excitement and arguing over toys. Adults greeted one another, sharing food and passing around flasks as they settled upon the ground. Infants were cooed over and toddlers traded from hip to hip. Everywhere, hands were clasped, arms laid over shoulders or around waists, small heads were patted, kisses exchanged. Niamh herself, before she sat next to them, was waylaid by a tall youth, who caught her from behind and buried his face in her neck, provoking a protesting oath in their language. But far from seeming displeased, the girl laughed and turned toward him, and what followed was a display of affection unlike any Eilonwy remembered witnessing in her life.

Within seconds she wished, heartily and hot-faced, to be anywhere else. But she was, simultaneously, so mesmerized she could not look away. Clearly the couple involved must not mind witnesses, given how they performed in the middle of such a crowd. It seemed an uncomfortably long time before they remembered the existence of anyone else, but eventually they parted and Niamh's merry glance fell upon Eilonwy. The Rover girl laughed at her expression. "Here's my Oisin," she explained, plunking upon the ground and pulling him down next to her. "It's wed we're to be, this summer, soon as he finishes buildin' our wagon."

Oisin extended his hand to both of them in turn as they stammered out their names. Neither he nor Niamh appeared the least bit aware of anything unusual in their conduct. Indeed, no one else in the crowd gathered 'round had taken any notice, either. Was such an embrace, then, typical for them, Eilonwy wondered. Was she the odd one, for being so startled by it?

From the corner of her eye—she would not look at him— she saw Taran pull up his dropped jaw like a fisherman reeling in a trout. "Best wishes," he croaked out, and obviously could think of nothing else to add. Attuned as she always was to his emotions, she could make no sense of what she felt from him now; the jumbled mass of it was too overwhelming, or perhaps she was too muddled by her own confusion. In any case she felt relieved when Gurgi inserted himself and sat between them, gleefully gnawing on a bone left of someone's dinner. His simple animal presence and mildly offensive smell provided a barrier both familiar and comfortably prosaic.

The random, disjointed sounds of various instruments around the fire suddenly organized themselves into a spirited tune, and approving shouts from the people around her turned into a rousing chorus everyone clearly knew well. She could make nothing of the words, but the drums and strings and high lilting whistle were enough to capture her heart, and in relief at the distraction Eilonwy clapped along with the crowds and cheered when it was done. Another tune followed, and then a story, a rousing tale of a wicked giant defeated by trickery, and then another tune, in a rhythm that instantly set her toes tapping. Niamh leapt up and reached for her hand, pulling her to her feet. "Choscloigini!" she exclaimed. "Come, ye must learn it!"

Any protest was futile, lost on the wind as they were joined by a dozen other youth and propelled to the center of the circle. The girls surrounded her, hitching their skirts up to display sun-kissed bare feet, their movements a chorus of silver chimes as they demonstrated the steps. None were overly difficult; a short series of stamps and kicks that repeated itself again and again; only the rhythm took a moment to feel out, and the timing of when to reach for the hand of a partner. "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 shoved into the colorful lineup, laughing with the rest, filled with the giddy delight of music and movement joined. No one minded her looseness with the steps; always when she stumbled, there was another hand held out, pulling her back into the rhythm. Black curls and streaks of color flashed past like dreams. Though the dance involved switching partners many times, somehow she found herself repeatedly paired with the boy who had tied on her bells that morning; his bright smile had grown no less mischievous in the meantime. He was beside her when the music beat its last echo into the evening, and stayed next to her as they all moved off to make room for the next performer.

"Yer lad's been watchin' ye all this time." He leaned in close to inform her of it, his voice low, with a wink and a jerk of his head toward the crowd. Automatically she looked where he indicated; there stood Taran at the edge of the firelight, staring at her with an expression as though someone had struck him and run off before he could retaliate.

She was already heated from dancing, and could flush no harder, but…"He's not my lad," she grunted, between her teeth.

"Is he not, now?" The boy took a flask as it made its rounds, sipped from it languidly, and passed it to her, his grin knowing. "Then why does he frown so to see ye at the dancin'?"

"I'm sure I've no idea." She raised the flask to her lips, expecting water; instead a liquid burning with sweetness filled her mouth and she gulped it down, gasped and coughed. "Good Llyr, what is that?"

He laughed. "Blackberry wine. Never had it?"

"No." She took another sip, slower, and rolled it in her mouth before swallowing, the warmth of it spreading deliciously into her throat. "It's marvelous."

"Just a nip, though," the boy said, eyes twinkling as he took the flask back from her and handed it off to someone else. "'Tis a specialty of ours, but strong stuff for them as not used to it. Now, then." His hand rose, inviting her back into the circle. "Shall we make 'im frown some more?"

Her glance strayed to Taran again; he had not moved, was still glowering, too ridiculous. Why didn't he join the dance himself, if it upset him to see her so entertained by another? In any case he was not going to spoil her fun—let him scowl as he liked from now 'til harvest time! She tossed her head, turned her attention back to the boy, took the offered hand, and smiled. The music shifted, winding again to a rhythm that compelled movement, and she allowed him to pull her back to the firelit circle.

They taught her a second dance, and a third, and all the time she sensed Taran's eyes on her. It vexed her, confused her; she resented him for watching and yet she threw herself all the harder into the music because he watched, unconsciously seeking to provoke any reaction. Other boys swept past her, swung her around until she was dizzy with movement, with the strange thrill of touching hands and the slide of their nimble arms at her waist. If Taran weren't so stubborn, he might be the one to do so, and then they'd both be enjoying themselves, but no… there he stood, like a stone. A frowning stone.

The moon was high, a pale slice like a thumbnail paring, when the last song was sung. The Rovers called their good nights, and drifted back to their wagons in clumps, mothers carrying sleeping children, fathers dragging those who should have been sleeping but were not. Eilonwy looked for Taran, but he had, at the last, disappeared into the crowd with Gurgi.

Rover youth pressed around her in the thinning herd. "Ye've a place to sleep?" Niamh asked, falling in step with her as she wandered to the edge of camp, flanked by Oisin and the twins on one hand, and Fiachra, her eager dance partner, on the other.

"Near our horses," she answered shortly, for Coll had instructed them so, and Fiachra nodded, his mouth forming a sardonic curve.

"Or ye might find 'em taken in the mornin', eh?" he suggested. "We know 'tis what folks say about us, but it an't truth."

"I didn't think so at all," she said indignantly. "Only we've got to leave very early, so we want to be near them. But it's all right. I'm quite used to sleeping outdoors."

"'Tis the only proper place!" He winked at her. "Ye'd fit right in wit' us."

She ignored the obvious bait. "Don't you sleep in the wagons?"

They all hooted with laughter. "Only when the weather drives us in," Oisin answered. "Wagons is for old ones and babes-in-arms."

"And newly-weds," a twin piped up wickedly, shoving Niamh so that she jostled into her betrothed. This did not appear to vex either of them, nor did the subsequent whoops and whistles from their observers as they made the most of the opportunity.

Eilonwy fell back to the edge of the group, once again both embarrassed and fascinated. The words of the young woman at the copper booth whispered back to her: as sweet with one another as only newlyweds is. Was this what she'd meant?

They had come to the cleared space where horses were picketed, and she spotted Melynlas's pale hide glowing like a ghost in the moonlight. Taran and Gurgi were already there, dark shapes huddled upon the ground. She hesitated, grateful for the friendliness she'd been shown by these youth, but now wishing she knew a polite way to shake them off. It was obvious that Taran would not welcome them. She was not sure he would welcome her.

She turned to them all earnestly. "I've got to leave by sunrise tomorrow, but…oh, I've enjoyed myself! Everything—not just tonight, though it was lovely. Taran's told me for years what it's like to visit your folk, but it's been better than imagined."

The girls cooed, and kissed her cheeks, exclaiming that they'd look for her when they came that way again. Fiachra took her hand and bowed over it flamboyantly. "'Tis a pity," he said loudly, and she knew he meant for Taran to hear. "Rumor it is 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!" One of the twins smacked him over the head, and the sisters shoved him about in exasperation, breaking his grasp upon her hand. "Don't be listenin' to a thing he says," Niamh told her, with a grin. "He speaks such blarney to every pretty lass, every stop we make."

Eilonwy was tempted to be offended, but Fiachra's rakish grin flashed from beneath a twin's restraining arm, so unashamed and silly that she laughed instead, heart lightening at the joyful nonsense of it all. Bidding them all good night and a regretful farewell, she turned and wove between dozing horses until she came to her own, and the heap of tack upon which Taran was leaning, his eyes shut, while Gurgi snored at his feet.

She would have hesitated to rummage through their pack, but she knew by his breathing, and the stiff set of his head, that he was not really asleep. Pulling out her cloak and a spare blanket, spreading them out upon the cool grass, she flopped down and sighed contentedly. "Oh, it's been marvelous! They're not like anyone I've met anywhere. I never knew it could be such fun to be around other young folks."

"Yes," Taran grumbled, "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 his tone, going on wistfully, "Can you imagine living within such a clan, always surrounded by your family and friends? Think how delightful!"

"Think how noisy," he retorted. "One person who never stops chattering is quite enough."

This nettled her at last. "Better than one who sulks about and won't join in the fun or...or do anything," she shot back, "except stand about looking like they're smelling horse-apples! If that person feels left out of things, they've got only themselves to blame."

She expected him to get angry; indeed, wished he would—a proper row would be better than one of his awkward silences. But he only muttered, "Better get some sleep," and turned his back on her.

Eilonwy stared up at the stars, scowling. Let him be difficult, then! She pulled her cloak about herself and felt the thump of her bauble knocking into her arm. Automatically she grasped it, its round surface cool and comforting in her palm. Her mother's gift.

Mother, she thought. My mother was with the Rovers, and my father, too. Had they danced in the firelight as she had tonight? Listened, laughed, cried at the stories shared, sung along with the flute and drums? Stolen away from the noisy crowds to be alone, sharing kisses and dreams of the future, like Niamh and Oisin?

Her father had spoken their language, but he wasn't one of them. Where had he come from; who was he? How had they come to be with the Rovers? And what had happened after she was born? Achren had always told her that her kinfolk had sent her as an orphan to Spiral Castle, ostensibly to be trained in magic, but—it was implied—really, to get an unwanted child off their hands. She had believed it less as she had gotten older and wiser to Achren's lies, and at last, Gwydion had confirmed that although she did have distant relations, none of them were aware of her existence. Her parents had eloped and disappeared, and were assumed perished in the cataclysm that had destroyed her homeland.

So many questions, and no place to go for answers. Frustration bubbled up in a low, grumbling groan, unintentionally released out loud. She heard Taran shift a little back toward her, and then his voice, irritated: "All right. I'm sorry I didn't tie bells on and go jumping about like a…"

"It's not you," she snapped, with such vicious intensity that he cut himself off and swallowed whatever else he'd planned to say. She shut her teeth, wrangling down her anger, weighing the silence. It shouted with feelings she could not shape into words, the loudest silence she could imagine. "Sorry," she whispered at last. "I didn't mean to grouse. Be a grump if you like; I don't care." Not quite true, but she was not ready to lay down arms just yet. "I was just…thinking of that old woman's story again. Wishing I knew more about it."

She sensed his better nature warring with his sullenness, before he sighed, and turned all the way over so that he faced her. "It's more than you've had, before, at least."

"Yes. It's something." It's more than he has, she thought, a little unwillingly, as a trickle of guilt found its meandering way through the maze of her thoughts, forcing her to acknowledge his empathy despite herself. She kept her gaze turned to the stars, but could see, from the corner of her eye, how he studied her profile. "Who would have thought? All the times you've told me how marvelous a visit from the Rovers is, 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."

This brought a tingling mental jolt, and she examined it in surprise. "I…I never thought of 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," he suggested. "They may have had more, after you."

"Maybe." The grey haze of empty memory made her chest ache. "But somehow that makes it worse. Because that would mean there are even more lost."

He made a quiet sound of affirmation, and she reminded herself, again, that he knew this same sadness. "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 digested this in silence, suffused with a fluttering, not unpleasant curiosity. Gwydion had once said she was very like her mother, and then called her mother unforgettable, in a tone that implied that his memory of her was somewhat more precious than mere diplomatic relations might account for. But Taran had little notion of such subtleties, and rarely complimented her outright. Did he mean to do so now? She wondered, if she turned her face toward him, whether he would keep looking at her, or glance away, with that nervous cough he always affected in order to pretend he hadn't been staring. But she could not raise the nerve, somehow, and presently his breathing changed to the slow rhythm that heralded sleep. A glance confirmed that his face was serene, lashes fringed upon his cheeks, dark brows relaxed.

So, that was the amount of interest he took in the subject, was it? With an angry huff she turned her back on him and yanked her cloak over her head, curling up as though she had hidden her own dignity in the hollow of her ribs for protection. Why had she expected anything different from him? And what did it matter? No one had asked for his compliments nor wanted them. After all, what were they worth? Fiachra had paid her more compliments in one day than Taran had in two years, without meaning a thing by them. Just empty words to turn the heads of sillier girls than she.

And yet she had blushed and smiled and laughed at them, and willingly followed him through the dance for the pure pleasure of such attention. Perhaps she was 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 not. She would go to sleep like a sensible person, unconcerned with such matters as boys and their myriad baffling, ridiculous ways.

Stupid, stubborn assistant pig-keepers.


I did plan to hold out a lot longer before I started posting this one, if not writing it. But I'm a creature of impulse, I'm afraid, and this is the story I have wanted to write for a long, long time...in a sense the first two novels in the series were warm-ups to this point.

Most of us Eilonwy fans have similar reactions to The Castle of Llyr: thrilled that its plot concerns her so directly, but a little betrayed and upset that she is so conspicuously absent in a story that is supposed to be about her. This leaves things wide open for speculation, though, and I've already laid the ground work for her conflict with Achren, and ultimately with herself--a plot for the ages, even if I don't know exactly where it will take me yet. There is SO MUCH to work with here, and I have Lloyd's ignoring her to thank for it, so I suppose I cannot be too cross.

Moreover, Lloyd can call CoL "romantic" all he wants--and it is romantic enough, for the target audience, certainly. But 16yo me reading it for the first time could not help ravenously imagining more between every line of the text. It just doesn't make a lot of sense that a couple of adolescents we know care deeply for each other wouldn't be having an absolutely wild time trying to make sense of their awakening attraction, especially since neither of them have ever witnessed a couple's relationship being modeled for them. In our modern, eroticism-saturated world of media, it's almost impossible to imagine growing up without ever seeing a lovers' kiss or a round of flirtation between young people--yet that's exactly what's happened with these two. No wonder it takes them so long to figure themselves out, poor chickens - they really have no idea how this works. I've come a long way since I first began writing snippets of their romance, and am no longer afraid to swim in this pool--so hang onto your pearls. Any time I am tempted to think I am belaboring the point, I go back and read my own tenth-grade journals and realize that no, it is really not possible to overstate how much teens obsess about their crushes. It was literally all we talked about.

There are other things about the book that seem to need "fixing" from a modern viewpoint...Dallben's sexist comments about bare feet and skinned knees being unbecoming, for instance, and the sort of infantilizing treatment of Teleria, the only other non-evil female character, as silly and shallow, are not things that sit as comfortably now, as they did in the 60s. While Lloyd himself was extremely progressive for his time, I am enjoying tweaking little things to better capture the respect and honor he clearly felt toward the women in his books and in his life. This story is, at heart, about Eilonwy's agency, and all the details should be pointing at that heart.

Thanks, all my readers, for joining me on another journey.