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prayers. And when the Hag of the Isles had tested me almost to breaking point out on a wave-swept skerry last spring, a ritual had won me release. A desperate sort of ritual it had been, scratched together from memories of my grandmother’s seasonal observances and my own knowledge of the power of water, but it had been what the Hag wanted from me.
    Here in the Watch of the East, the element of air was foremost. I had imagined the White Lady standing on a windswept hilltop or drifting on a summer breeze, but I had learned to expect nothing obvious from the Guardians. The Master of Shadows had been three people in one: blind old man, mercurial youth and noble mage. The Hag of the Isles had been no toothless crone but a strong island woman possessed of wry humour and, beneath her formidable exterior, a tough sort of kindness. The Lord of the North, at first locked away in his enchanted sleep, had proven on waking to be readiest of all to help, since he’d viewed me as a kind of saviour. The White Lady would probably be as full of surprises as the rest of them.
    In the old forbidden song, her line was: White Lady, shield me with your fire . I’d wondered about that, since fire was the element of the south, domain of the Master of Shadows. Perhaps the song referred to a different kind of fire – the fire of inspiration, or of courage. I thought of the ritual those women had enacted here not so long ago, how beautifully it had flowed, the sense of peace and power it had conveyed to me. I could not emulate that; I must offer what I could, and hope it was enough to satisfy the ancient inhabitants of this place, whether or not the Lady was among them. There were Good Folk somewhere close, I could feel them, but it seemed my presence alone was not enough to bring them out.
    In the centre of the circle, with the cairns all around me like watchful old crones under their stone shawls, I spread my cloak on the ground and sat on it cross-legged. Even in my layers of woollen clothing I was cold. I closed my eyes, breathed in a slow pattern and considered the many forms of air. A gentle breeze, a biting wind, a gale, a wild storm. A voice, whispering, speaking, chanting the words of a ritual as those women had. A voice shouting. Screaming. I hoped Whisper had not found anything bad.
    Air supported the wings of birds and insects, helping them fly. Air made bubbles on the surface of a pond and whipped the sea to whitecaps. Air made candles flicker and fanned the flames of bonfires. In the isles of the west, I had seen trees beaten to prostrate surrender by the force of the wind. I had watched in terror as a violent storm drove the waves against the skerry where Tali and I were marooned. Air could whip like a scourge; it could destroy. But air was life, from the first gulping breath of a newborn babe to my grandmother’s last rattling exhalation as the merciful kiss of death ended her suffering.
    I opened my eyes, drew my own deep breath, and lifted my voice in the Song of Truth, the anthem Keldec had long forbidden. I could think of no better way to let the White Lady know why I was here.
    I am a child of Alban’s earth,
    Her ancient bones brought me to birth,
    Her crags and islands built me strong,
    My heart beats to her deep wild song.
    I am the wife with bairn on knee,
    I am the fisherman at sea,
    I am the piper on the strand,
    I am the warrior, sword in hand.
    Something was here with me. A tiny presence, many presences, buzzing and whining around my head, making me want to swat them away . . . I kept my hands still. No midges these, but something Other; each was a little light, a manifestation of the magic I had felt the moment Whisper and I first approached the place of the cairns.
    White Lady, shield me with your fire,
    Lord of the North, my heart inspire,
    Hag of the Isles, my secrets keep,
    Master of Shadows, guard my sleep.
    The buzzing changed as I sang, tuning itself to the melody, wreathing me in a soft, high music. The tiny