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buildings scattered up the slopes from the small harbor sheltered by a tall rock (“Inish Bideach, that rock’s called,” one of the sailors told her. “Tiny Island.”) Smaller white dots moved along the green-cloaked, steep hillsides: grazing sheep. High up on the mountainside, a large, towered structure gleamed as if it had been molded from snow: the White Keep, home of the Order of Inishfeirm and Meriel’s intended residence for the next several years.
    It looked a gloomy prospect, indeed.
    The sailors furled the twin sails and took to the oars, rowing Uaigneas into the harbor as Jenna and Máister Kirwan came up from their tiny cabins. They flanked Meriel and Nainsi. Jenna greeted Meriel with a “Maidin maith,” but said nothing else to her. Those on the shore had noticed the Banrion’s insignia fluttering on the forward mast, and a crowd gathered quickly around the wharf where they tied up.
    “Most of the island’s turned out,” Máister Kirwan commented, smiling and waving to the people. “Everyone wants to see the Banrion and First Holder again.”
    Meriel refrained from comment: if this was “most of the island,” then there weren’t many people here at all. She’d seen larger crowds on nearly any day at the market at Dún Kiil, and during the Festivals the streets there were so full that this pitiful group waving back at them would have been utterly lost. They seemed to be fisherfolk or farmers mostly, with plain clothing and plainer faces, hands stained dark with work and toil. Here and there among them were a few men and women in white clócas like Máister Kirwan, some with a white léine underneath, others—mostly younger than Meriel—with red. A man all in white came forward as the lines were secured to the pilings and the planking laid from deck to wharf: slightly built, with hair so dark brown it verged on black, and eyes the color of freshly-turned earth. His beard was still downy and short, patchy on the cheeks, and to Meriel’s mind he looked to be no more than four or five years older than she was. He also seemed to be rather nearsighted, for he leaned slightly forward and squinted heavily in their direction, his nose wrinkling. He wore a glittering stone around his neck “Máister! And Banrion MacEagan! Welcome!”
    “Owaine Geraghty.” Jenna’s mam was smiling. “And in a Bráthair’s colors finally. It’s good to see you once again—you’re taking good care of the clochmion I sent you, I see.”
    Owaine smiled, touching the stone. “Thank you again for the gift, Banrion. It was unexpected and very much appreciated.”
    “You and your family helped me once; that’s just a small return of the favor.”
    “It was far more generous than that,” Owaine answered. “I never expected to actually hold a cloch na thintrí.” He gestured toward the buildings near the docks. His squinting eyes found Meriel. “So this is our new acolyte. Welcome, Bantiarna MacEagan. I have a carriage for you—we saw the ship from the keep. There’s a supper waiting above . . .”

    Meriel found the White Keep depressing despite its bright outward appearance. The stonework was ancient, with a central tower that appeared far older than the Keep at Dún Kiil. The stones were a pale granite coated with layer upon layer of whitewash. Inside, the structure was huge, drafty, and cold—a maze of corridors and passages, all of them seemingly added to the existing structure at various times over the centuries. The architecture varied wildly, from plain work around the oldest portions that might have been crafted by the ancient Bunús Muintir race; to ornate, fancifully ornamented archways that belonged to the Before, back when the mage-lights had last gleamed in the sky; to the stark, utilitarian lines that Meriel associated with the Great Hall of Dún Kiil; to a colorful geometric style of decoration that she didn’t recognize at all. A flagged corridor might end suddenly, going down two abrupt steps