She'd been very young at the time of the exodus, Aunt Albane said: a mere smolt, able to swim on her own but not yet ready to mate or bear offspring. Father had dragged her from the depths as the Dark King raged, and they fled together, ahead of twisted, shadowy shapes with harpoons and tridents -- never stopping till they reached the safety of the seashore. "But how did he swim?" I asked. I couldn't imagine Father -- small and portly with a shock of pale white skin, out of breath when he climbed the stairs -- as someone who had ever been at ease in the sea-depths. Aunt Albane laughed, a sound like breakers on the shore. "He had an armour. Grey and green like a lobster's shell." Her eyes had that distant look that suggested she wasn't there anymore, but somewhere underwater, amidst algae and fish and the familiar currents of her childhood. "And a sword?" I asked. She looked startled. "Yes. I guess you could call it a sword." I pictured Father as some kind of knight: like Sir Roland in the Pyrénées, holding back the Saracens with his blade Durandal -- a palpable halo of light around him as he swam with my mother in his arms, away from the spreading, choking darkness.
