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unknown Khan'-cohban if you could help it. It was in the gray hush before dawn when the Celestines at last moved, stepped forward to hold hands around the pool. The burning torches which Iseult, Lach-lan and Meghan had carried in their hands were scorched to their base, barely glimmering with flame. The fire had sunk to embers, and Iseult was conscious of the dryness of her eyes and the empty ache of her body after a night without food or sleep. One by one the Celestines began to croon, some so low the sound was felt as a thrumming in the veins and arteries and organs, rather than heard; others as high and clear as the tinkle of a waterfall. Meghan joined the Celestines around the pool, their slim tall figures towering over hers. Her murmur interlaced with the Celestines, building in blood-troubling rhythms.
    The night was beginning to peel away along the horizon when, unexpectedly, a voice of the clearest and most poignant beauty wove through the song. Iseult, crouched by the fire in a daze, looked up and saw that Lachlan had quietly stepped forward to take Meghan's hand and join the ring of singers. His wings were spread, the moonlight marbling the feathers with silver, highlighting the beautiful line of his jaw and neck. Iseult could only gaze at him and listen, filled with helpless longing. As the stones loomed against the paling sky, birds of all sorts began to sing and carol. Water gurgled as clear, liquid bubbles splashed into life, sending the water in the pool tumbling over the lip of stone and down the side of the hill. Still Lachlan sang, his voice the most beautiful music Iseult had ever heard. The sun rose, embroidering the landscape with color, and the song of the Celestines slowly drifted into silence.
    "Och, well done, my laddie!" Meghan cried. "Come and see, Iseult! The summerbourne is running." In the center of the pool a clear spring now bubbled.
    Where the water cascaded down the western slope of the hill, a gaudy train of flowers had sprung up—the tiny crimson stars of waterlilies, golden buttercups, blue forget-me-nots, the white buds of wild strawberries and the heavy pink heads of clover.
    The Ceiestines were humming excitedly, and Meghan turned and embraced her nephew. "It is true, ye have magic in your voice," she cried, and tears were wet on her wrinkled face. "The summerboume is running, stronger than it has for years! They say it is the best singing o' the dawn since the Faery Decree, for there are so few Ceiestines left and many are too sick at heart for the singing! Oh, Lachlan, I am so pleased and surprised! Enit said ye refused to use your voice, though she knew it had the power o'
    enchantment. Ye have Talent indeed—look at the spring, how strongly it flows!" The youngest of the Ceiestines, a slim woman dressed in palest yellow, came forward and took Lachlan's hands and gazed intently into his eyes. A surprised expression crossed Lachlan's face, then a look of squirming embarrassment. "That's all right," he said gruffly. "It seemed the thing to do—I could hear the melody building . . ."
    After another long, searching look, she moved then to Meghan and the two embraced and wandered off, deep in conversation. One by one, the other Ceiestines bowed to Lachlan and touched their fingers to the middle of his forehead and then to theirs. He scowled, unsure how to respond, but they merely smiled joyously then followed the course of the summerboume as it tumbled down the hill. The air was sweet with the heady scent of the flowers, and woodlarks flew overhead, singing furiously. The whole forest seemed alive with gladness, bright leaves quivering, nisses bathing playfully in the overbrimming stream. Only the oldest of the Ceiestines remained, running his fingers through the liquid silk of the spring, a buttercup tucked in his beard. His face in the fresh light seemed impossibly lined, as if he had seen much pain and sorrow. His sparse hair and beard were white as that of a geal'teas, his eyes pale