Storm Warning

by Nora Roberts

  like her mother’s—closed.

  “Sweet dreams only,” she murmured, touching the charm she’d hung over the beds of her babies. “Safe and sound through all the night. All you are and all you see hold you through dark into light.”

  She kissed the soft cheek, and as she straightened, winced at the pull in her belly. The ache came and went, but came more strongly as the winter held. So she would take her daughter’s advice and make a potion.

  “Brighid, on this your day, help me heal. I have three children who need me. I cannot leave them alone.”

  She left Teagan sleeping, and went to help the older children with the chores.

  When night fell, too fast, too soon, she secured the door before repeating her nighttime ritual with Eamon.

  “I’m not tired, not a bit,” he claimed as his eyes drooped.

  “Oh, I can see that. I see you’re wide awake and raring. Will you fly again tonight, mhic?”

  “I will, aye, high in the sky. Will you teach me more tomorrow? Can I take Roibeard out come morning?”

  “That I will, and that you can. The hawk is yours, and you see him, you know him, and feel him. So rest now.” She ruffled his bark brown hair, kissed his eyes—wild and blue as his father’s—closed.

  When she came down from the loft, she found Brannaugh already by the fire, with the hound that was hers.

  Glowing, Sorcha thought, with health—thank the goddess—and with the power she didn’t yet fully hold or understand. There was time for that, she prayed there was time yet for that.

  “I made the tea,” Brannaugh told her. “Just as you taught me. You’ll feel better, I think, after you drink it.”

  “Do you tend me now, mo chroi?” Smiling, Sorcha picked up the tea, sniffed it, nodded. “You have the touch, that you do. Healing is a strong gift. With it, you’ll be welcome, and needed, wherever you go.”

  “I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to be here with you and Da, and Eamon and Teagan, always.”

  “One day you may look beyond our wood. And there will be a man.”

  Brannaugh snorted. “I don’t want a man. What would I do with a man?”

  “Ah well, that’s a story for another day.” She sat with her girl by the fire, wrapped a wide shawl around them both. And drank her tea. And when Brannaugh touched her hand, she turned hers over, linked fingers.

  “All right then, but for only a moment. You need your bed.”

  “Can I do it? Can I bring the vision?”

  “See what you have, then. Do what you will. See him, Brannaugh, the man you came from. It’s love that brings him.”

  Sorcha watched the smoke swirl, the flames leap and then settle. Good, she thought, impressed. The girl learned so quickly.

  The image tried to form, in the hollows and valleys of the flame. A fire within a fire. Silhouettes, movements, and, for a moment, the murmur of voices from so far away.

  She saw the intensity on her daughter’s face, the light sheen of sweat from the effort. Too much, she thought. Too much for one so young.

  “Here now,” she said quietly. “We’ll do it together.”

  She pushed her power out, merged it with Brannaugh’s.

  A fast roar, a spin of smoke, a dance of sparks. Then clear.

  And he was there, the man they both longed for.

  Sitting at another fire, within a circle of stones. His bright hair braided to fall over the dark cape wrapped around his broad shoulders. The dealg of his rank pinned to it glittered in the light of the flames.

  The brooch she’d forged for him in fire and magick—the hound, the horse, the hawk.

  “He looks weary,” Brannaugh said, and leaned her head against her mother’s arm. “But so handsome. The most handsome of men.”

  “That he is. Handsome, and strong, and brave.” And oh, she longed for him.

  “Can you see when he comes home?”

  “Not all can be seen. Perhaps when he’s closer, I’ll have a sign. But tonight, we see he’s safe and well, and that’s enough.”

  “He thinks of you.” Brannaugh looked over, into her mother’s face. “I can feel it. Can he feel us thinking of him?”

  “He hasn’t the gift, but he has the heart, the love. So perhaps he can. To bed now. I’ll be up soon.”

  “The blackthorn is blooming, and the old hag did not see the sun today. He comes home soon.” Rising, Brannaugh kissed her mother. The dog trotted up the ladder with her.

  Alone, Sorcha watched her love in the fire. And alone, she wept.

  Even as she dried her tears she heard it. The beckoning.

  He would comfort her, he would warm her—such were his seductive lies. He would give her all she could want, and more. She had only to give herself to him.

  “I will never be yours.”

  You will. You are. Come now, and know all the pleasures, all the glory. All the power.

  “You will never have me, or what I hold inside me.”

  Now the image in the fire shifted. And he came into the flames. Cabhan, whose power and purpose were darker than the winter night. Who wanted her—her body, her soul, her magick.

  The sorcerer desired her, for she felt his lust like sweaty hands on her skin. But more, more, she knew, he coveted her gift. His greed for it hung heavy in the air.

  In the flames he smiled, so handsome, so ruthless.

  I will have you, Sorcha the Dark. You and all you are. We are meant. We are the same.

  No, she thought, we are not the same, but as day to night, light to dark, where the only merging came in shadows.

  So alone you are, and burdened. Your man leaves you a cold bed. Come warm yourself in mine; feel the heat. Make that heat with me. Together, we rule all the world.

  Her spirits sagged, the ache and pull inside her twisted toward pain.

  So she rose, let the warm wind come to blow through her hair. Let the power pour in until she shone with it. And saw, even in the flames, the lust and greed in Cabhan’s face.

  Here is what he wanted, she knew, the glory that rushed through her blood. And this was what he would never have.

  “Know my mind and feel my power, then and now and every hour. You offer me your dark desire, come to me in smoke and fire. Betray my blood, my babes, my man, to rule o’er all, only take your hand. So my answer to thee comes through wind and sea, rise maiden, mother, hag in trinity. As I will, so mote it be.”

  She threw out her arms, released the fury, fully female, whirled in, flung it toward the beat of his heart.

  An instant of pure, wild pleasure erupted inside her when she heard his cry of rage and pain, when she saw that rage and pain burst onto his face against the flames.

  Then the fire was just a fire, simmering low for the night, bringing a bit of warmth against the bitter. Her cabin was just a cabin, quiet and dim. And she was just a woman alone with her children sleeping.

  She slumped down in the chair, wrapping an arm around the tearing in her belly.

  Cabhan was gone, for now. But her fear remained, of him, and that if no potion or prayer healed her body, she would leave her children motherless.

  Defenseless.

  * * *

  She woke with her youngest curled with her, found comfort even as she shifted to rise for the day.

  “Ma, Ma, stay.”

  “There now, my sunbeam, I have work. And you should be in your own bed.”

  “The bad man came. He killed my ponies.”

  A fist of panic squeezed Sorcha’s heart. Cabhan touching her children—their bodies, their minds, their souls? It brought her unspeakable fear, unspeakable rage.

  “Just a dream, my baby.” She cuddled Teagan close, rocked and soothed. “Just a dream.”

  But dreams had power and risks.

  “My ponies screamed, and I couldn’t save them. He set them afire, and they screamed. Alastar came and knocked the bad man down. I rode away on Alastar, but I couldn’t save the ponies. I’m afraid of the bad man in the dream.”

 
“He won’t hurt you. I’ll never let him hurt you. Only dream ponies.” Eyes tightly closed, she kissed Teagan’s bright, tousled hair, her cheeks. “We’ll dream of more. Green ones, and blue ones.”

  “Green ponies!”

  “Oh, aye, green as the hills.” Snuggling, Sorcha lifted a hand, circled her finger, twirled it, twirled it until ponies—blue ones, green ones, red ones, yellow ones—danced in the air above their heads. Listening to her youngest giggle, Sorcha stored up her fears, her anger, closed them in with determination.

  He would never harm her children. She would see him dead, and herself with him, before she allowed it.

  “All the ponies to their oats now. And you come with me then, and we’ll break our fast as well.”

  “Is there honey?”

  “Aye.” The simple wish for a treat made Sorcha smile. “There’ll be honey for good girls.”

  “I’m good!”

  “You are the purest and sweetest of hearts.”

  Sorcha gathered up Teagan, and her baby held tight, whispered in her ear. “The bad man said he would take me first as I’m the youngest and weak.”

  “He’ll never take you, I swear it, on my life.” She eased Teagan back so her daughter could see the truth of it in her eyes. “I swear it to you. And, my darling, weak you’re not, and never will be.”

  So she fed the fire, poured honey on the bread, and made the tea and oats. They’d all need their strength for what she would do that day. What she needed to do.

  Her boy came down from the loft, his hair tousled and tangled from sleep. He rubbed his eyes, sniffed the air like a hound. “I fought the black sorcerer. I didn’t run.”

  Inside her breast Sorcha’s heart kicked to a gallop. “You dreamed. Tell me.”

  “I was at the turn of the river where we keep the boat, and he came, and I knew him for a sorcerer, a black one because his heart is black.”

  “His heart.”

  “I could see in his heart, though he smiled, friendly like, and offered me some honey cake. ‘Here, lad,’ says he, ‘I’ve a fine treat for you.’ But the cake was full of worms and black blood—inside it. I could tell it was poisoned.”

  “You saw inside his heart, and inside the cake, in the dream.”

  “I did, I promise.”

  “I believe you.” So her little man had more than she’d known.

  “I said to him, ‘Eat the cake yourself, for it’s death in your hand.’ But he threw it aside, and the worms crawled out of it and burned to ashes. He thought he would drown me in the river, but I threw rocks at him. Then Roibeard came.”

  “Did you call the hawk in your dream?”

  “I wished for him, and he came, and he flashed out with his talons. The black sorcerer went away, like smoke in the wind. And I waked in my bed.”

  Sorcha drew him close, stroked his hair.

  She’d unleashed her fury at Cabhan, so he came after her children.

  “You’re brave and true, Eamon. Now, break your fast. We’ve the stock to tend.”

  Sorcha moved closer to Brannaugh, who stood at the base of the ladder. “And you as well.”

  “He came into my dream. He said he would make me his bride. He . . . tried to touch me. Here.” Pale with the telling, she covered her chest with her hands. “And here.” Then between her legs.

  Shaking, she pressed her face to her mother when Sorcha embraced her. “I burned him. I don’t know how, but I made his fingers burn. He cursed me, and made fists with his hands. Kathel came, leaping onto the bed, snarling, snapping. Then the man was gone. But he tried to touch me, and he said he’d make me his bride, but—”

  Rage woke inside the fear. “He never will. My oath on it. He’ll never put his hands on you. Eat now, and eat all. There’s much work to do.”

  She sent them all out to feed and water the animals, clean the stalls, milk the fat cow.

  Alone she prepared herself, gathered her tools. The bowl, the bells, the candles, the sacred knife, and the cauldron. She chose the herbs she’d grown and dried. And the three copper bracelets Daithi had bought her at a long ago summer fair.

  She went out, drew deep of the air, lifted her arms to stir the wind. And called the hawk.

  He came on a cry that echoed over the trees and the hills beyond that, which caused servants in the castle by the river to cast their eyes up. His wings, spread wide, caught the glint of the winter sun. She lifted her arm so those wicked talons clutched on her leather glove.

  Her eyes looked into his, and his into hers.

  “Swift and wise, strong and fearless. You are Eamon’s, but mine as well. You will serve what comes from me. Mine will serve what comes from you. I have need of you, and ask this for my son, for your master and your servant.”

  She showed him the knife, and his eyes never wavered.

  “Roibeard, I ask of thee, a drop of blood from your breast times three. A single feather from your great wing, and for these gifts your praises I sing. To guard my son, this is done.”

  She pricked him, held the small flask for the three drops. Plucked a single feather.

  “My thanks,” she whispered. “Stay close.”

  He lifted from her hand, but soared only to the branch of a tree. And closing his wings, watched.

  She whistled for the dog. Kathel watched her with love, with trust. “You are Brannaugh’s, but mine as well,” she began, and repeated the ritual, gathering the three drops of blood, and a bit of fur from his flank.

  Last, she moved into the shed, into the sound of her children laughing as they worked. She took strength from that. And stroked her hand down the pony’s face.

  Teagan raced over when she saw the knife. “Don’t!”

  “I do him no harm. He is yours, but mine as well. He will serve what comes from me, and you, as you will serve what comes from him. I have need of you, Alastar, and ask this for my daughter, for your mistress and your servant.”

  “Don’t cut him. Please!”

  “Only a prick, only a scratch, and only if he consents. Alastar, I ask of thee, a drop of blood from your breast times three. A bit of hair from your pretty mane, and for these gifts, I praise your name. To guard my little one, this is done.”

  “Just three drops,” Sorcha said quietly as she pricked with the tip of the knife. “Just a bit of his mane. And here now.” Though Alastar stood quiet, his eyes wise and calm, Sorcha laid her hands on the small, shallow cut, pushed her magick into it to heal. For her daughter’s tender heart.

  “Come with me now, all of you.” She lifted Teagan onto her hip, led the way back into the house. “You know what I am. I have never hidden it. You know you carry the gift, each of you. I have always told you. Your magick is young and innocent. One day it will be strong and quick. You must honor it. You must use it to harm none, for the harm you do will come back on you threefold. Magick is a weapon, aye, but not one to be used against the innocent, the weak, the guiltless. It is a gift and a burden, and you will all carry both. You will all pass both to those who come from you. Today you learn more. Heed me and what I do. Watch, listen, know.”

  She moved to Brannaugh first. “Your blood, and mine, with the blood of the hound. Blood is life. Its loss is death. Three drops from thee, three drops from me, and with the hound’s, the charm is bound.”

  Brannaugh placed her hand in her mother’s without hesitation, held steady as Sorcha pricked her with the knife.

  “My boy,” she said to Eamon. “Three drops from thee, three drops from me, and from the hawk’s heart, to seal three parts.”

  Though his lips trembled, Eamon held out his hand.