His entire life had been a failure until this quest. He’d had no family, worked no farm, and created no stories. He had survived from day to day, scraping by, without contributing to his world in any way. If he had never existed, would anything have changed? Would anyone be the better or worse for his life?
He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the tears to stay away. His failure with this quest was no surprise. If he had drowned in the ocean, no one would have cared or noticed.
Bran nosed up against his hand, the warm, wet tongue interrupting his misery. He smiled and ruffled the wolfhound’s fur. Perhaps he had lived a worthless life, but he’d saved Bran’s life. That must be worth something in the grand scheme of things. Perhaps he could still complete his quest with his friends’ help. Perhaps he hadn’t yet failed.
“There is no failure while there is life.”
He jumped to his feet, spinning to find the owner of the deep, resonant voice. It flowed through his feet and into his bones.
He saw no one.
A low chuckle bubbled into his mind. “You see no one. I am no one, but I am also everyone. You may glimpse me, however, under the surface. You must search if you wish to see.”
A glint of silver flashed in the ocean before him. An enormous salmon head popped above the water, black and silver spotted, with a hint of pink near the gills.
He had found his salmon.
“In truth, I have found you, Fingin. Again.”
“So, you are the salmon in the river, the one who broke my net?”
Fingin imagined a smile playing on the salmon’s mouth. “Indeed. You needed to be distracted so you could find your loyal companion. If I hadn’t broken your net, you would not have seen the branch. If you hadn’t seen the branch, you would not have rescued the dog.”
Fingin set his jaw. “I would have seen that half tree coming down my river without you breaking my net!”
“Do you doubt my words, human?”
The menace in the salmon’s mental voice brooked no argument. Fingin wondered at his own temerity. The salmon had an honored place in legends, a harbinger of wisdom. To ignore its words would be foolish.
“I do not.”
“Excellent. Cliodhna has chosen well.”
He raised his head, his eyes wide. Bran yipped once. “Cliodhna? Then you do remember my grandmother?”
“You already knew this. Why do you waste my time with foolish questions?”
Foolish questions. Very well, he’d ask what he needed to know. “Where is my grandmother now?”
“That is not the correct question.”
He glanced at Bran, but the dog just cocked his head. “Can you hear the salmon, too?”
Bran whined. “Yes. I don’t like him. His voice hurts.”
He flashed the dog a sympathetic smile and turned back to the fish. “How can I get to where my grandmother is?”
“Much better. I shall show you.”
Images swam in his mind. Back the way he came, to the north edge of the large island, to a bog near the coast. Hills hung in the distance, across the flat marshlands and a small strip of water. A sacred well surrounded by a throne of flat stones.
“The new religion will someday steal the well on Imleach Bog, dedicating it to one of their own holy men who will travel the ocean. However, the old gods remain strong in this place. This is where you will begin your journey.”
Sitting back on the ground, Fingin held his aching head. “My journey to where?”
“To where your grandmother lives.”
Fingin bowed his head. “Thank you.”
“This information comes at a price, young human.”
“What price do you ask?”
The salmon did not respond right away. Fingin sweated as the fish considered his answer. Perhaps the salmon only waited to make him nervous. Either way, it worked.
“I shall ask for a future favor.” The salmon disappeared.
With a muffled curse, Fingin leapt to his feet again, scanning the distance for a sign of the fish, but nothing moved but the gentle waves of the ocean.
Bran glanced up at him. “Is he gone?”
“He’s told me where to find my grandmother. At least a way to get to her.”
Bran barked three times. “Will there be food?”
* * *
The journey to the sacred well had been relatively easy, for once. No storms battered the coast, nor did any rogue warriors harass them. Instead, the day beat warm and humid upon their backs as they slogged through the marshy lands. The land remained flat here, vast and empty of trees. Tall, green grasses swayed in the faint breeze around them, the wind a welcome relief to the heat.
In the distance, several low hills rose against the backdrop of the ocean, just as they had in the salmon’s vision.
A dark pile of rocks in the distance became their beacon. As they drew closer, the dark pile resolved into the flat stones he’d seen in his mind’s eye. Arranged almost like a throne around the deep well, they appeared stark against the green grass. Stone steps led into the dark depths.
Fingin dipped his hands into the water, taking a cautious sip. The clear, sweet water ran down his throat, and his skin cooled despite the humid day. Brigit’s charm around his neck grew warm, and he grasped it with his hand. The cloth it hung upon grew icy.
“It seems like we need to enter the well itself.” Fingin glanced at his animal companions. “I don’t insist either of you come with me. You are free to come or stay as you like. If you stay, you can go your own way, or you can wait for me. Bran, I will fish for you if you want to do that. Sean, there should be plenty of grass for you.”
In his heart,
