Holder of Lightning

The mage-lights had come; Jenna had been able to renew Lamh Shabhala, and with the cloch she'd regained her ability to speak with Thraisha. She was still in seal form-far more comfortable than any human one in this environment. She marveled at the new feel of the world around her and her heightened senses. She had never known that the taste of the ocean was so complex, that she could sense where the mouth of a river shed fresh water, or whether the bottom below was sandy or rocky, or where the kelp beds lay. Swimming unbounded by gravity was a luxuriant pleasure, the feel of the water against her fur like the stroke of a lover's hand. Underneath the water, she could hear the sounds of the ocean: the distant, mournful calls of whales, the splash of brown seals feeding nearby, the flutter of a school of fish turning as one, the grunts and chirps and clicks of a thousand unidentified animals.

Yet her new body retained marks of the old: her right flipper was scarred and balky, the fur marked all the way to her spine with the shapes of the mage-lights. She still ached, every movement sending a reminder of the punishment she'd endured.

"How long can I stay this way?" she asked Thraisha after she'd re-counted to the Saimhoir

what had happened since they’d last talked. "Ennis, he said that most changelings were either Water-snared or Earth-snared, able to change for only a few hours."

Thraisha grunted agreement. "He was right. But your blood runs strong with the Saimhoir strain and with the power of the mage-lights. You can stay this way until you will yourself to return to your birth form. But there’s danger in that, as well. The longer you remain Saimhoir, the more difficult it will be to make the change back. And I would believe that the longer you stay Saimhoir, the more likely it is you will lose the ability to use the cloch na thintri. Lamh Shabhala is a servant of the stone-walkers, not of the Saimhoir."

In the radiance of the cloch, Jenna could sense the faint stirring of the life inside her. She wondered what would happen to the child if she remained Saimhoir. "I need to go back. To Inishfeirm, perhaps." She looked at the cliffs of the headland, a hundred yards away from the rocks on which they lay. They were lower here than at Thall Coill-looming like a blue-green line of thunderclouds on the horizon at the end of the curving shore of the island-but still high. And beyond them, she knew all too well, were trackless miles of steep hills and drumlins.

She would be naked. With no resources but Lamh Shabhala. Without Seancoim. . The thought stirred the deep sorrow in her. You’ve lost the two people who cared most for you. You’re alone. Alone. .

Jenna found that while a Saimhoir could feel anguish and grief, they could not cry.

Thraisha stirred. "We could swim there, faster than you could walk. I would stay with you."

"I can’t ask that of you. You told me: the interests of the Saimhoir aren’t those of my people."

"You are both," Thraisha answered. "And we’re linked, you and I." She coughed, and the heads of two more blue seals broke the water near them. They hauled out of the water alongside Thraisha.

"It’s a long swim around the Nesting Land," Thraisha said. "Rest today, and feed yourself while the sweetfish are running. Then we’ll begin."

OWAINE often went down to the shoreline in the mornings. He'd help his da and his older brothers push the boat off the half-moon shingle where it was beached and tied every night, even though he knew that it was the burly arms and legs of his brothers and not his tiny form that was sliding the tarred and weathered wood along the wet sand. When the waves finally lapped at the prow, his da would ruffle his hair. "That's good enough, little one. We'll take it from here. Watch your mam for us until we get back." Then they would push the boat out into the swells, his da leaping into the boat last as his brothers rowed out a bit. He'd see his da readying the nets as the boat cleared the surf and headed out to the deeper water past the headland.

Owaine would watch until he could no longer see the boat-that would not be long, since his eyes were shortsighted and everything quickly became a blur-then he'd go exploring before his mam called him back to the cottage up the hill. Usually, he scrambled around the clear tidal pools that collected between the black rocks, trying to catch the small bait fish that were sometimes trapped as the tide went out, or poking at the mussels and clams. Sometimes he'd come across odd pres-ents the sea had tossed up on the shore for him to find: a boot lost by some fisherman; a battered wooden float from a fishing net; strange, whorled shells with enameled, sunset-pink interiors; driftwood polished by the waves and twisted into wondrous shapes.