The Awakening

by Roberts, Nora

  To soothe, to cherish, Marg laid a hand on Breen’s cheek. “Now that you found more, you respect it more than you might have.”

  “But I wonder if I have so many doubts about myself, about what I can do, should do, because she told me—not just in words, but in looks, in actions—that I was less. And I believed her, and settled for less.”

  “You have a chance and a choice to be what you are.” Firm now, Marg put her other hand on Breen’s cheek to cup her face. “Take it, build on all that came before, reach for what comes next. If you fail, well, greatness rises from first failures. Now, mo stór.” She stepped back. “Clear your mind and cast your circle.”

  As she’d been taught, Breen used the broom to sweep out negativity, making a determined effort to sweep her own out with it.

  At the east point of the circle, she placed a yellow candle and incense, at the south, a red candle and a dragon’s heart stone. Then at the west a blue candle and a shell, before she placed a green candle and a small bundle of herbs at the north.

  As Marg watched, Breen walked the circle three times.

  “This circle of protection I cast as a shield from evil future and past. With love and light this ring I form and add my vow to do no harm.”

  On her last circle, she drew up her light, loin to belly, belly to heart, heart to crown, and set the candles flaming—air, fire, water, earth.

  The nerves didn’t come, not this time, as that light held strong inside her. She lifted the athame from the altar, turned east.

  “I call on the gods of the rising sun who grant me power to hear my call from this place, at this hour. I am your servant. I am your child.”

  She repeated the call to the south, to the west, to the north.

  As she spoke, the air stirred; the candles flamed higher.

  And she felt the stir, felt the flame, inside her.

  She went to the altar to perform the simple spell Marg had chosen for her, one to bestow clarity.

  She added the herbs, the crystals to the cauldron on the altar, poured the water from the cup over them. Tapping her wand three times on the cauldron, she lit a fire beneath it before anointing her third eye with oil.

  “Rise, smoke, rise and bring the vision to my eyes. To my heart grant the sight; to my mind bring the light. Through the mists let me see. As you will, so mote it be.”

  The smoke spiraled up, thin and white.

  Through it, she heard an echo, dull at first, as if the fog smothered sound. As it cleared, she knew the crash of sea against rocks. And as it cleared, she saw the cliffs, the stony island, the rubble of black stones above that crashing sea.

  She saw the ritual on those cliffs. The circle—painfully different from what she’d cast. A ring of black candles with bloodred flames, the ring of demons inside it. In the center stood a slab of altar, gleaming black.

  Bound to it, the boy fought. His screams pierced the smoke, tore through Breen as the figure in a black cape and hood stepped to the altar.

  Chanting, garbled and thick in a language she didn’t know, pounded like drumbeats.

  The hooded figure lifted one hand to the sky, and it began to boil. With the other he lifted a long, curved knife. When he drew it across the boy’s throat, lightning exploded, bombs of violent light. Thunder rolled, rolled as he caught a stream of blood in a gold chalice.

  She saw the face of her grandfather as he lifted the chalice high, as lightning struck it. As, bathed in its light, he drank deep.

  With the vision faded, mercifully faded, Breen dropped to her knees. Only then did Marg come to her.

  “You must finish. You must offer your thanks, and close the circle. I’ll help you, but you must finish. Then I’ll give you a potion—you’re so pale—and you’ll tell me.”

  “It was him. It was Odran.”

  “Aye, so I thought it might be.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Because it was closer, Marg sat Breen down in front of the fire in her workshop. She added a potion to wine, and found herself grateful she’d done so for both of them as Breen finished her tale.

  “Lightning struck the chalice, and the flash . . . It was dark, but it still illuminated. Then Odran drank, he drank—Oh, that poor boy, Nan. He couldn’t have been more than twelve. After he drank, the demons, they . . . they devoured him. They just fell on his body and—”

  She shuddered, drank more wine.

  “It was horrible, beyond horrible. It had to be from years ago because Odran looked so young.”

  “He is any age he wishes, at any time. I can’t tell you when, only that he would have a purpose for blood sacrifice. There is no greater crime, no greater sin.”

  As she spoke, Marg paced, unable, as yet, to find her own calm.

  “For this, so it is written, the gods cast him out of their realm. You said the black castle was in ruin.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s right. So it had to be after he took me.”

  “After, aye.” Marg sat again, then took Breen’s hand as she studied her face. “Your color’s better. I’m proud of you, Breen, for finishing after so brutal a vision. This was not the spell we wrote.”

  “I know. I don’t know where it came from.”

  “From you. You asked for vision, asked to see. There’s a purpose in this as well. It may not be clear, but there’s a purpose. I’ll ask Sedric to tell Keegan you won’t be training today.”

  “No. Believe me, I’d rather have a root canal, but if I skip today, he’ll just make it twice as hard on me tomorrow.”

  With a smile, Marg squeezed her hand. “There. You’ve come to know him, so that’s some clarity as well. But he’d take my word you’re unwell.”

  “I can still see . . .” She breathed it out. “Getting knocked down will give me something else to think about. I’d rather get it over with than worry about what he’d pile on me tomorrow. He brought out swords yesterday. They won’t draw blood, but they sure as hell bruise. I’ll go.”

  She rose. “I don’t suppose we could do a spell so I have the skill to knock him on his ass for a change.”

  “Best not tamper with that. Would you like me to come with you?”

  “It’s humiliating enough without an audience, thanks.” She bent over, kissed Marg’s cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

  “You have the tea for restful sleep.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Drink some before bed, and what do you place under your pillow?”

  “Rosemary and amethyst or black tourmaline.”

  “You learn well.”

  She wished she could learn to fight nearly as well, Breen thought as she started her walk to the farm. Actually, she didn’t, and that was probably at least part of the problem.

  She could easily go the rest of her life without wanting to punch somebody, much less whack at them with a sword.

  Except . . .

  She thought of the boy, struggling, screaming.

  Wouldn’t she have tried to protect him, by whatever means?

  She looked over the fields as Bollocks raced up the road, then back again. Everything so green, so lush, so peaceful, with the blue water of the bay curving in.

  It actually hurt, physically hurt, she realized, to know such evil existed when the world offered such simple beauty.

  The poor boy. Had he come from this world, hers, another? Impossible to know. But she knew he’d been terrified and still he’d tried to fight. Right up until the end, he’d tried.

  She could hardly do less.

  She saw the hawk before she saw Morena. Amish glided down to land on one of the stone pillars flanking the farm gate. Bollocks—growing so fast!—raced up to plant his forepaws on the pillar and bark.

  “He’s far too dignified to play with you,” Morena called out. Her hair, free of her usual braid, waved sunnily to the small of her back.

  She beat Breen to the gate, crouched down to rub the dog, who plopped down to show his belly. “But I’m not.” Amusing them both, she gave Bollocks a quick
wrestle before looking up at Breen. “Ready to take on Keegan, are you then?”

  “I’m never ready for it.”

  “Ah now, Harken tells me you’re improving.”

  “How would he know?”

  “Sure and he’s watched a time or two, from a discreet distance.”

  “God. Mortifying.” But she opened the gate.

  “I’ll see for myself.”

  “No, it’s bad enough. He knocks me down regularly, and adds insult to injury. Apparently, I’ve got feet buried in a bog, the balance of a one-legged drunk, and the hands of a three-fingered tinker.”

  “All the more reason you need someone cheering you on.” Morena tossed an arm around Breen’s shoulders. She smelled of the garden—sweet, spicy, earthy all at once.

  “I’ll wager you’re better than you think.”

  “You’d lose that bet. Oh, Christ, he’s got the damn swords out. My arm was like rubber after yesterday.”

  “Rubber’s the thing that bounces, isn’t it? You’ll bounce then. And there’s himself, looking all fierce and steely eyed.”

  Keegan turned his head, grinned at her. “And here’s herself, come to torture my brother again.”

  “He doesn’t seem to mind it.” She hefted a sword with a style Breen envied. “You’ve bespelled them.”

  “I have, of course. I don’t want to hack something off her, do I?”

  Morena ran the blade over her palm, nodded. “But you don’t mind her feeling the sting.”

  “Feel nothing, learn nothing. Harken’s in the stables. One of the horses is off her feed.”

  “I’ll look in on him later.” She handed back the sword. “I mean to watch for a bit.”

  “See you keep clear.”

  He turned to Breen, tossed her the sword. It hit the ground as she jumped back.

  And Keegan cast his eyes to the sky. “And this is what the gods give me to work with. Pick up the sword. I trust you remember which end is which.”

  “You stick them with the pointy end.”

  He actually smiled. “I read that story. Arya was but a child and learned fast and well. You’re a woman grown. Come now, stick me with the pointy end.”

  She tried. He blocked without moving his body an inch, and she felt the sting in her belly as he stabbed her.

  “Try again.”

  This time the sting in her shoulder told her she’d have lost an arm.

  “Balance your weight,” Morena called out from her perch on the paddock fence.

  Keegan’s duster hung over the rail beside her.

  “Quiet, you.” He pointed the sword at Morena, then turned back to Breen. “Again.”

  “Feck it all, Keegan, she’s just beginning. Ease up a bit.”

  “Just beginning and dead twice over. Again.”

  So it went. Mortal wound after mortal wound until her whole body felt the stings.

  “Bloody bully! Put your shoulder into it, Breen. Block the bastard.”

  She tried. Sweat dripped into her eyes, ran down her aching back, but she tried. She managed to block a blow that might have decapitated her, felt the slap of blade to blade scream up her arm.

  “I need to—”

  “Block!” He snarled it at her. “If you can do nothing else, block.”

  But her sword slid weakly down his, and he killed her again.

  Standing hard against her, not winded in the least while her breath whistled, he gripped her wrist.

  “Hold the damn sword, you’ve muscle enough. And use your feet, for fuck’s sake, and your head before you lose it. I mean to kill you, that’s all you need to know. I want your death.” He slapped her sword with his, again and again. “Fight to take mine.”

  He drove her back, back until she had to use both hands to hold the sword. “Strike out!”

  She swung, and his block had the sword spinning out of her sweaty hands. Her legs wobbled, and he finished her off with a shove.

  “You’re not training but badgering and bullying.” Incensed, Morena stomped over to retrieve Breen’s sword. “It’s no fair fight, and you know it.”

  He rounded on Morena so they stood—both armed and toe to toe. And both spewing temper.

  “There’s no fair fight in battle, and you know it. Do you want her alive or dead? For dead she’ll be if this is the best she has. For she’s useless with a sword and nearly as bad with her fists.”

  He wrenched the sword from Morena, tossed it down beside Breen. “Pick it up, get on your feet, and try again.”

  “I’m not useless.”

  “Prove it then, if you’ve the belly for it. Take up the sword. Fight, or die.”

  She hurt, everywhere, but that was nothing compared to the rage that flooded into her.

  She was not useless.

  “Die then,” he said, and strode toward her, sword poised for the killing blow.

  She threw her hand out, threw the rage with it. And the rage had heat, a burning that seared through her, boiled out of her.

  It shot him into the air and back a solid ten feet before he struck the paddock fence, snapping wood as the force sent him tumbling through.

  For a moment, Morena froze, eyes wide. “Stop. Stop now, Breen,” she said before she raced to Keegan.

  He sat up, waved her off. And looked over at Breen with a kind of dark satisfaction. “Well then, somebody’s waking up at last.”

  Breen pressed her shaking hand to the ground. It vibrated still inside her, that shocking spurt of power.

  “I didn’t mean . . .”

  “You should.” Keegan got to his feet. “You should mean whatever it takes to send the enemy down rather than yourself.”

  “Your nose is bleeding.”

  Carelessly he swiped a hand under it. “As it has before, will again. Pick up the sword, get up.”

  “She’s shaken yet, Keegan. Gods, so am I. Let her be.”

  “It’s still in her. I can see it.” Crouching by Breen, he gripped her chin. “Just as you feel it. You’ll use it. We’ll work to focus it, to channel it, to control it, so it comes and goes at your will.”

  His eyes—so intense—glowed into Breen’s. And in them she saw pleasure and approval.

  “This is what you wanted,” she realized.

  “Aye, it’s what’s needed. Morena, go hold Harken off, as he’s racing out of the stables as if they were on fire. And have him do the same with Aisling and Mahon. Tell them all we’re fine here.

  “On your feet.” He gripped Breen’s arm, pulled her up. “As now true training begins.”

  Appalled, at him, herself, at everything, she tried to shake him off. “You did that on purpose, goaded me, slapped at me.”

  “And it took far too long for results. You’re a slow burn, Breen Siobhan, but you’ve hellfire when it finally lights. Now we’ll use it.”

  “I don’t want . . .” Not true, she realized as he simply stood, the iron grip on her arm, and waited. However terrifying, she did want whatever had exploded in her, out of her. Because it had been glorious, too.

  “I didn’t do it on purpose. I didn’t control it, and I could’ve done worse than a nosebleed.”

  “All true enough, and so I’ll help you. I’ll help you,” he repeated, and for the first time his words didn’t bite or sting. “I’ve some in me, as I’m of the Wise, but I’ve no god’s blood, so you’ve more. Your father had the same, and when my own died, he took up my training, and he stood for me as a father would.”

  Pausing, he looked around, the fields, the paddocks, the house of sturdy stone. “This farm is yours by birthright.”

  “No. I’d never—”

  He flicked her a baleful glance. “I didn’t say, and wouldn’t, you’ll have it back again. Eian gave it to my family because he knew we would tend it as he would, and so we have. But what I do with you, I do for him. I do for Talamh. I do for the light.

  “Will you do less? Will you be less?”

  “I don’t know what I’ll do. I don’t know what I’ll be
. But it won’t be less. I’m never going back to less.”

  “Then pick up your sword. The day’s wasting.”

  She picked up the sword. “Don’t piss me off like that again.”

  He only grinned. “I’ve defenses of my own. I haven’t given you a taste yet.”

  He gave her a few, and though she didn’t like the flavor, she learned, at least a little. When an enemy had the power to spin the wind, you spin with it, use the momentum to gather speed, and strike back. When you fall down, get the hell up before you’re impaled.

  She didn’t have to like the lessons to learn them.

  “I have to stop. I have to go. It’s nearly dusk.”

  “Battles don’t stop when the sun sleeps.”

  Did he never get tired? she wondered.

  “I need to go back through. I don’t want to walk nearly a mile through the woods in the dark.”

  “Pixies will light your way if you ask, but you have the means for it yourself.”

  “I didn’t think to stash a flashlight on the other side.” Which wasn’t a bad idea. “And I’m not stumbling through the woods with a candle or lantern.”

  “Bring your light.”

  “What light?”

  The sharp slide of his sword into its sheath sounded of impatience. “Give me your hand.”

  “Why?”

  “Ah, women.” He grabbed it, turned it palm up. “You know how to bring fire.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Fire’s not only flame, and even that can be cold as well as hot—as you will. Fire is light. As you can bring the fire, you can bring the light. Draw it up. The roots are in you; draw, from the roots, the light, cool and bright. Draw it up, see it, a sphere, a ball, a globe, in the palm of your hand.”

  There was amber in his eyes, she realized. Like light. Flecks of light in the sea of green.

  “I’ve never—”

  “Focus on the light, within, without. See it, feel it, know it. Cool in your hand, white, pure, a globe formed from your light, by your will.”

  It flickered. She nearly lost her focus in surprised joy, but his fingers tightened on her wrist.

  “Hold it, strengthen it. Bring it.”