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She said it would be our people’s last defense. That it would protect us against powerful forces.”
    “The humans?” Taren asked.
    “Perhaps.” Vurin shook his head. “She told me little more than that.”
    “And what of the Council? What of the rumors that Seria now speaks for them?” The thought of Seria controlling the Council made Taren shiver. He couldn’t escape the memory of his cruelty and of his power any more than he could forget the echo of pain and despair.
    “I will not see our brethren harmed. Too many of us died when we fought each other two decades ago. Your parents were among them.”
    “My parents.” Why had he hesitated to ask Vurin about them?
    “I must admit that there are times I don’t understand you, Taren,” Vurin said with a wry smile. “Some empath I am.”
    “I’m afraid.”
    “Of what?” Vurin pointed to a path at the edge of the cliff, and they began to descend. “Of the pain of their loss?”
    “Aye.” There was little point in denying it—he knew it to be true.
    “There is pain in loss,” Vurin agreed. “But there is joy in understanding, as well.” Taren inhaled deeply in an effort to dispel the grief he felt at never having known his parents. “They were good people. They loved you very much. Enough to want to keep you safe from harm at the cost of their own lives.”
    “You were the one who hid my true nature, weren’t you?” Taren asked. He had guessed this long before but had never found an opportunity to ask.
    “Aye.”
    “Ian told me of the prophecy. That the stone is our people’s salvation.”
    Vurin nodded. “The old priestess, Zea, spoke of it often. She told me her mother knew Treande and Owyn. She said you would grow to be a powerful mage. She told me to protect you.”
    “Protect me how?”
    “She didn’t say.” Vurin studied him as if he knew what Taren might say next.
    “You… guessed?” Taren wasn’t sure why this disturbed him. What if there had been another way? What if he’d grown up with others of his kind?
    “I could have been wrong,” Vurin admitted, likely sensing Taren’s questions.
    “They died protecting me, didn’t they?”
    “Best I can tell, yes. After they left Callaecia with you, they were never heard from again. Except for the rumor of a mermaid found dead by the harbor, I know nothing of how they perished.”
    Taren rubbed his mouth. Sometimes he wondered whether Ian was right—that the goddess planned something different for him in this life—or whether he and Ian were fated to relive the pain of the past as some sort of penance for failing to protect their people.
    They reached the bottom of the cliff a moment later. The sun made the surface of the water glitter, and the sound of the waves crashing over the rocks made Taren long to transform. He closed his eyes and inhaled the salty air. He imagined the wind working its fingers through his hair, brushing his skin, helping him to forget his fear.
    “What part of me is Treande?”
    “You won’t learn the answer to that question until you understand what part of you is not Treande.” When Taren did not respond, Vurin asked, “Who is Taren?”
    More riddles. He hated it when Vurin spoke in riddles.
    “What does Taren desire? What does he fear? What drives him?”
    Taren drew a long breath but found he still could not speak.
    “You love Ian. You want to remain at his side. Keep him safe. What then?”
    “Aye.” A simple question, and yet other than loving Ian, he couldn’t answer the rest of Vurin’s question. “I want to rebuild our home,” he said, finding nothing else he desired except the wish to live out his life at Ian’s side.
    Vurin picked up a white stone—the same rock from which the temple had been built—and rolled it between his palms. “Would you wish to rebuild the temple?” He replaced the stone and looked back at Taren.
    “I… I don’t know. Perhaps if the goddess demanded it.” Or if Ian asked him to do it.
    “You