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wave—up to that ledge. Higher! Up! Up!” And let the next wave not smash my head into a boulder, or we’re both gone.
    My legs ached. My shoulders felt like fire. Another step up, and another. Let me be right about how fast this uncanny tide was rising. Let this wave carry us up to the ledge. The voice of the sea thundered its challenge. Now, it was coming now.
    I found a tree root between the stones and grabbed it with my left hand. My right arm was clamped around the man’s waist. “Breathe!” I ordered, then took a breath deep into my chest as I had been taught. The water came, chill and hard. It was in my face, up my nose, filling my ears. My head hit something. I surfaced, my shoulder smashing against the rocks. The man was slipping from my grip, down, down and away. “No!” I shrieked in defiance of the sea, and I grabbed his hair and held on like a barnacle to its rock. “No! You’re going to live!”
    The wave subsided, leaving us just below the safe ledge.
    “Up!” I croaked. His breathing screamed hurt. His face was ghastly white, his eyes dark hollows. I must be cruel. “Move! This way!” The next wave would get us there. It must. I got his arm around my shoulders again. He forced himself more or less upright. Nyd . Courage in the face of the impossible. “Good work,” I said. “Keep hold of me. I won’t let you go.”
    We struggled over a patch of sliding stones and past a projecting boulder. As the next wave roared up behind us, we reached the ledge. The surge washed us up onto it, as if weary of the game we were playing. The water receded, and we were safe.
    At first all I did was breathe. With every breath my spirit filled with thanks for the blessing of air, for the gift of survival. The man breathed, too, making a sound that suggested his lungs were half full of water. He lay flat on his back beside me. Bouts of shivering coursed through his body. He was wet through, and so was I. The strength he had summoned at the last was gone now. He wouldn’t be walking anywhere, even with my support. And I couldn’t leave him here on his own. How long would it be before anyone thought to look for me, and how long before they found us? I had left my basket up on the path. Eventually someone would spot it and call, and I would answer. But it was cold, and growing dark, and we could not afford to wait.
    You are a druid, Sibeal. Use what is here. Use what you have. What did I have? My seer’s gift was strong, but it did not allow me to mind-call as some of my kinsfolk could, communicating over distance without words. Ciarán was teaching me the language of creatures and the power to manipulate the elements, but I was only a beginner, and I could think of no way my limited skills could be put to use now. If my mentor had been here on the island, he’d have sensed something wrong and come to find me. If . . . but wait. What about Cathal? Clodagh’s husband was half-fey. Indeed, he was an adept in the magical arts, though he did not make use of them, having chosen to live his life as a man among men. Might Cathal sense a message of the mind, if I tried hard enough to send it?
    The man was shivering so violently that he seemed likely to fall off the ledge into the water. Gods, I hoped I was right about the tide line.
    “Here,” I said. “Move closer.” For, though I had been foolish enough to come out here without shawl, cape or cloak, I had the warmth of my own body. On second thought, warmth was hardly the right word. I was drenched and chilled to the bone. The man was too exhausted to sit up, so I pushed and pulled him to the back of the ledge, then lay down behind him, wrapping an arm over him and pressing my body against his. It was a little improper, but necessary under the circumstances. He mumbled something. His words were in no language I could understand—they did not even sound like Norse.
    “That’s better,” I said. “Now pray that this works. I’ve no wish to stay out here all