by Nora Roberts
“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.
“And my baby. Don’t fear.”
Her eyes shone with tears, but Teagan watched her mother solemnly as she held out her hand.
“Three drops from thee, three drops from me, with the horse as your guide, the magicks ride.”
She mixed the blood, kissed Teagan’s little hand. “There now, that’s done.”
She lifted the cauldron, slid the vials into the pouch at her waist. “Bring the rest. This is best done outside.”
She chose her spot, on the hard ground with snow lumped in the cool shadows of the trees.
“Should we get firewood?” Eamon asked her.
“Not for this. Stand here, together.” She moved beyond them, called on the goddess, on the earth, the wind, the water, and the fire. And cast the circle. The low flame bubbled over the ground, rounded until end met end. And inside, warmth rose like spring.
“This is protection and respect. Evil cannot come within, dark cannot defeat the light. And what is done within the circle is done for good, is done for love.
“First the water, of sea, of sky.” She cupped her hands, opened them over the cauldron, water blue as a sun-kissed lake poured out, poured in. “And the earth, our land, our hearts.”
She flicked one hand, then the other, and rich brown earth spilled into the cauldron. “And the air, song of the wind, breath of body.” She opened her arms, and blew. And like music, the air swept in with earth and water.
“Now the fire, flame and heat, the beginning, the ending.”
She glowed, the air around her simmering, her eyes burning blue as she threw her arms up, cast her hands down.
Fire erupted in the cauldron, shooting flame, dancing sparks.
“These your father gave to me. They are a sign of his love, a sign of mine. You are, all three, of that love.”
She cast the three copper bracelets into the flame, and circling it, added fur and hair and feather, added blood.
“The goddess gifts to me the power so I stand in this place, in this hour. I cast the charm, protect from harm my children three and all that comes from them, from me. The horse, the hawk, the hound, by blood they are ever bound to shield to serve from life to life in joy, in sorrow, in health, in strife.
“In earth, in air, in flame, in sea. As I will, so mote it be.”
Sorcha lifted her arms high, turned her face to the sky.
The fire shot up in a tower, red and gold, wild blue in its core as it spun and twisted into the cold winter sky.
The earth shook. The icy water in the stream went to roaring. And the wind howled like a wolf on the hunt.
Then it stilled, it died, and there were just three children, hand gripping hand, watching their mother—pale as snow now—sway.
Sorcha shook her head as Brannaugh started toward her. “Not yet. Magick is work. It gives, and it takes. It must be finished.” She reached in the cauldron, drew out three copper amulets. “To Brannaugh the hound, to Eamon the hawk, to Teagan the horse.” She slipped an amulet over each child’s head. “These are your signs and your shields. They protect you. You must keep them with you always. Always. He cannot touch what you are if you have your shield, if you believe its power, believe in mine and your own. One day you will pass this to one who comes from you. You’ll know which. You’ll tell your children the story and sing the old song
s. You’ll take the gift, and give the gift.”
Teagan admired hers, smiled as she turned the small oval in the sunlight. “It’s pretty. It looks like Alastar.”
“It’s of him, and of you, and of me and your father, of your brother and your sister. And why shouldn’t it be pretty?” She lowered to kiss Teagan’s cheek. “I have such pretty children.”
She could barely stand, and had to bite back a moan as Brannaugh helped her to her feet. “I must close the circle. We must take everything inside now.”
“We’ll help you,” Eamon said, and took his mother’s hand.
With her children, she closed the circle, let them carry the tools into the house.
“You need to rest, sit by the fire.” Brannaugh pulled her mother to the chair. “I’ll fix you a potion.”
“Aye, and a strong one. Show your brother and sister how it’s done.”
She smiled when Teagan wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, when Eamon spread a blanket over her lap. But when she started to reach for the cup Brannaugh brought, her daughter held it back. Then squeezed at the flesh around the cut on her hand until three drops of blood plopped into the cup.
“Blood is life.”
Sorcha sighed. “It is, aye. It is. Thank you.”
She drank the potion, and slept.
2
FOR A WEEK, THEN TWO, SHE WAS STRONG, AND HER POWER HELD. Cabhan battered at it, he pushed, he slithered, but she held him back.
The blackthorn bloomed, and the snowdrops, and the light turned more toward spring than winter.
Each night Sorcha watched for Daithi in the fire. When she could, she spoke to him, risked sending her spirit to him to bring back his scent, his voice, his touch—and to leave hers with him.
So to strengthen them both.
She told him nothing of Cabhan. The magicks were her world. His sword, his fist, even his warrior’s heart could not defeat such as Cabhan. The cabin, hers before she’d taken Daithi as her man, was hers to defend. The children they’d made together, hers to protect.
And still she counted down the days to Bealtaine, to the day she would see him riding home again.
Her children thrived, and they learned. Some voice in her head urged her to teach them all she could as quickly as she could. She didn’t question it.
She spent hours at night in the light of the tallow and the fire writing out her spells, her recipes, even her thoughts. And when she heard the howl of the wolf or the beat of the wind, she ignored it.
Twice she was called to the castle for a healing, and took her children so they could play with the other youths, so to keep them close, and to let them see the respect afforded the Dark Witch.
For the name and all it held would be their legacy.
But each time they journeyed home, she needed a potion to revive the strength sapped from the healing magicks she dispensed to those in need.
Though she yearned for her man, and for the health she feared would never be fully hers again, she schooled her children daily in the craft. She stood back when Eamon called to Roibeard—more his than hers now, as it should be. Watched with pride as her baby rode Alastar, as fierce as any warrior.
And knew, with both pride and sorrow, how often Brannaugh and her faithful Kathel patrolled the woods.
The gift was there, but so was childhood. She made certain there was music, and games, and as much innocence as she could preserve.
They had visitors, those who came for charms, for salves, who sought answers to questions, who hoped for love or fortune. She helped those she could, took their offerings. And watched the road, always watched the road—though she knew her love was still weeks from home.
She took them out on the river in the little boat their father had built on a day of easy winds when the sky held more blue than gray.
“They say witches can’t travel over water,” Eamon announced.
“Is that what they say then?” Sorcha laughed, lifted her face to the breeze. “Yet here we are, sailing fine and true.”
“It’s Donal who says it—from the castle.”
“Saying it, even believing it, doesn’t make it truth.”
“Eamon made a frog fly for Donal. It was like boasting.”
Eamon gave his younger sister a dark look, would’ve added a poke or pinch if his mother hadn’t been watching.
“Flying frogs might be fun, but it isn’t wise to spend your magick for amusements.”
“It was practice.”
“You might practice catching us some fish for supper. Not that way,” Sorcha warned as her son lifted his hands over the water. “Magick isn’t every answer. A body must know how to fend for himself without it as well. A gift should never be squandered on what you can do with your wit and your hands or your back.”
“I like to fish.”
“I don’t.” Brannaugh brooded as the little boat plied the river. “You sit and sit and wait and wait. I’d rather hunt. Then you have the woods, and we could have rabbit for dinner.”
“Tomorrow’s as good as today for that. We’ll look for fish tonight if your brother has luck and skill. And perhaps a potato pie.”
Bored, Brannaugh handed her line to her sister, and gazed out over the water to the castle with its great stone walls.
“Did you not want to live there, Ma? I heard the women talking. They said we were all welcome.”
“We have our home, and though it was just a hut once, it’s stood longer than those walls. It stood when the O’Connors ruled, before the House of Burke. Kings and princes come and go, m’inion, but home is always.”
“I like the look of it, so grand and tall, but I like our woods better.” She leaned her head on her mother’s arm a moment. “Could the Burkes have taken our home?”
“They could have tried, but they were wise to respect magick. We have no fight with them, nor they with us.”
“If they did, Da would fight them. And so would I.” She slid her gaze toward her mother. “Dervla from the castle told me Cabhan was banished.”
“That you knew already.”
“Aye, but she said he comes back, and he lies with women. He whispers in their ear and they think he’s their lawful husband. But in the morning, they know. They weep. She said you gave the women charms to keep him away, but . . . he lured one of the kitchen maids away, into the bog. No one can find her.”
She knew of it, just as she knew the kitchen maid would never be found. “He toys with them, and preys on the weak to feed himself. His power is black and cold. The light and the fire will always defeat him.”
“But he comes back. He scratches at the windows and doors.”
“He can’t enter.” But she felt a chill through her blood.
Just then Eamon let out a shout, and when he yanked up his line, a fish flashed silver in the sunlight.
“Luck and skill,” Sorcha said with a laugh as she grabbed the net.
“I want to catch one.” Teagan leaned eagerly over the water as if searching for a likely fish.
“We’ll hope you do, as we’ll need more than one, even such a fine one. It’s good work, Eamon.”
They caught three more, and if she helped her baby a bit, the magick was for love.
She rowed them back with the sun sparkling, the breeze dancing, and the air full of her children’s voices.
A good, fine day, she thought, and spring so close she could almost taste it.
“Run on home then, Eamon, and clean those fish. You can get the potatoes started, Brannaugh, and I’ll see to the boat.”
“I’ll stay with you.” Teagan snuck her hand into her mother’s. “I can help.”
“That you can, as we’ll need to fetch some water from the stream.”
“Do fish like us to catch and eat them?”
“I can’t say they do, but it’s their purpose.”
“Why?”
And why, Sorcha thought as she secured the boat, had been Teagan’s first word. “Didn’t the powers put the fish in the wat
er, and give us the wit to make the nets and lines?”
“But they must like swimming more than the fire.”
“I expect so. So we should be mindful and grateful when we eat.”
“What if we didn’t catch and eat them?”
“We’d be hungry more often than not.”
“Do they talk under the water?”
“Well now, I’ve never had a conversation with a fish. Here now.” Sorcha pulled Teagan’s cloak more closely around her. “It’s getting cold.” She glanced up, saw the clouds rolling over the sun. “We may have a storm tonight. Best get home.”
As she straightened, came the fog. Gray and dirty, it slunk like a snake over the ground and smothered the sparkle of the day.
Not a storm coming, Sorcha realized. The threat was here already.
She pushed Teagan behind her as Cabhan rose out of the fog.
He wore black picked through with silver like stars against a midnight sky. His hair waved to his shoulders, an ebony frame for his hard and beautiful face. His eyes, dark as a gypsy’s heart, held both power and pleasure as he scraped them over Sorcha.
She felt them, like bold hands on her skin.
Around his neck he wore a large silver pendant shaped like a sun with a fat jewel—a glinting red eye—in its center. And this was new, she thought, and sensed its black power.
“My lady,” he said, and bowed to her.
“You have no welcome here.”
“I walk where I will. And what do I see but a woman and her small, pretty child alone. Treats for brigands and wolves. You have no man to see you safe, Sorcha the Dark. I will escort you.”
“I see myself safe. Begone, Cabhan. You waste your time and powers here. I will never submit to such as you.”
“But you will submit. Joining with me is your destiny. I’ve seen it in the glass.”
“You see lies and desires, not truth or destiny.”
He only smiled, and like his voice, his smile held seduction. “Together we’ll rule this land, and any others we wish. You will wear fine cloth in bright colors and drape your skin in jewels.”
He swirled his hands. Teagan gasped when she saw her mother wearing the rich red of royalty, the sparkle of jewels, and a gold crown studded with them.
Just as quickly, Sorcha flicked a wrist and was once again draped in her simple black wool. “I have no need, no wish for your colors and shine. Leave me and mine, or you will feel my wrath.”
But he laughed, the sound rolling from him in smooth and terrible delight. “Is it a wonder, my heart, that I want none but you? Your fire, your beauty, your power, all meant to be mine.”
“I am Daithi’s woman, and will ever be.”
With a grunt of disgust, Cabhan flicked his fingers. “Daithi cares more for his raids, his games, his petty little wars than for you or the whelps you bore him. How many times has the moon waxed and waned since he last shared your bed? You grow cold in the night, Sorcha. I feel it. I will show you pleasures you’ve never known. And I will make you more than you are. I will make you a goddess.”
Fear tried to crawl into her like the fog crawled over the ground. “I would die by my own hand before being bedded by you. You only crave more power.”
