by Nora Roberts
“It’s not the same as the active dreaming you’ve done, but not so very different. Have you been practicing your meditating?”
Iona winced. “Probably not as much as I should. My mind always wants to go somewhere.”
“Training your mind’s part of it. Training it, quieting it, and as I’ve said, focusing it. Here, bring your tea to the fire. You should be relaxed in body and mind and spirit.”
Iona obeyed, and Kathel stirred from his nap to lay a paw on her foot in hello.
“Just watch the fire, have your tea. You like the taste of it, and the biscuit. Quiet breathing. Inhale, pause, exhale, pause. You can smell the peat fire, and the candles just poured, the herbs hanging to dry.”
“Rosemary especially.”
“Sure it’s a favorite. You hear your breath go in and out, and Kathel’s tail swishing against the floor, the crackle of the fire, and the sound of my voice. It’s soothing, all soothing. The touch of my hand, and Kathel’s paw. Soothing all, so you can drift a bit, float a bit. Quiet and peaceful.”
“But I—”
“Trust me. I’ll be with you this first time, take you this first time. See where you want most to go, see it in the fire, see it in your mind.”
“Nan’s kitchen,” Iona realized all at once. “I miss her. She’s never done anything but love me, believe in me. She’s been the only one who has for so long. I’m what I am because of Nan.”
Branna glanced at Connor as he came over to sit on Iona’s other side. “A long trip for a first,” she murmured.
“Her heart takes her there.”
“And so will we. Do you see it, Nan’s kitchen, in the fire, in your mind?”
“It’s like yours. I mean feels like yours, not looks like. It’s smaller, and there’s no hearth. I see the walls, they’re like a warm peach and the cabinets are dark, dark brown. There’s an old butcher block table. When I sat with her there, I could tell her anything. She told me what I am, told me about the first dark witch while we sat at that table having tea and cookies—biscuits. Just like now. She keeps herbs on the windowsill, and the blue and green pottery bowl I gave her for her birthday years ago on the table. There were red apples in it the day she told me everything, not just pieces, but all. Shining red apples in the green and blue bowl. Her eyes are like mine, the same color, the same shape. And when they look at me, I believe.”
“Focus on the bowl, the colors of that, the shape of that. Let yourself lift, let yourself go where you want to go. Quiet breaths, quiet mind, quiet purpose. Lift. Float. Fly.”
She lifted, floated as if weightless. The air, the light all pulsed blue—quiet, soothing. And as she felt the first stirring of its power, of hers, she flew.
Fast, free, soaring over green hills misted by blue, over water—blue under blue.
Branna’s voice sounded in her mind. Breathe. Keep your focus.
“It’s amazing! It’s beautiful.” She threw her arms out to the side, laughed with the sheer joy of it.
Hold on now. Nan’s kitchen. See it.
She saw it in her mind, and then, she was simply there. Standing by the old butcher block table, with the blue and green bowl. Lemons and limes today, Iona thought, a bit dizzy.
And there was Nan, stepping in the back door, toeing out of her gardening shoes, taking off the wide-brimmed straw hat.
Small statured, small framed, as Iona was. Trim and pretty in her jeans and light jacket. Her hair, maintained a soft golden red, formed a stylish wedge around her face. Light, discreet makeup. Nan wouldn’t even garden before taking care of the basics.
She started to walk to the fridge, stopped. Then very slowly turned.
Her hand went to her heart, and eyes wide, she let out one short gasp. “Iona! You’re here. Oh, oh, Branna and Connor as well. Oh, look at you, my baby girl. How much you’ve learned already.”
“You can see me.”
“Sure I can see you, you’re standing right there, aren’t you? And so pretty. Sit, sit, all of you, and tell me everything.”
“Can we sit?” Iona wondered.
“There’s enough power in this room to light the next fifty kilometers.” Branna pulled out a chair, sat. “Of course we can sit.”
On a little cry, Iona rushed forward, grabbed Nan in a hug. “I can touch you. I can feel you. I’ve missed you.”
“As I’ve missed you.”
“We can’t stay long this time, cousin.” Branna smiled at them. “It’s a long distance for her first time.”
“The first?” With a laugh, a beam of amazement in her eyes, Nan hugged again. “Oh no, not long then. But long enough to say how proud and happy I am.”
“Will you come? You said you’d come to Ireland.”
“And so I will, when it’s time. I’ll know. You’re happy, but . . . there’s something unhappy.”
“She’s had a . . . disagreement,” Connor decided. “With Boyle.”
“Ah, I see. I’m sorry for it, as I’m well fond of him. If it’s right, it’ll mend.”
“He doesn’t trust me. It’s not important.”
“Of course it is.”
“I mean right this minute. I want to know how you are.”
“Fit and fine, as you see. Planting pansies today, as they’ll take the cool, and it’s been cool this spring. And cabbage, of course, and a bit of this and that. You’re teaching her well, Branna, as she tells me. And you, Connor.”
“She learns well. And she’s needed.” Branna reached out a hand, took Nan’s. “I want to say to you, you were right to send her, right to give her the amulet. I’m grateful to you.”
“No need for that. It’s ours to do. It’s our blood.”
“It is, and it will be. He’s stronger now that the three are together, but we’re stronger yet. I’m sorry we can’t have a proper visit.” Branna rose. “But she’s only begun on this skill.”
“Even a moment is a great treat. You take care, my girl. And keep your heart and your mind open, Iona. That’s when the best come into them.”
“I remember.” She kissed Nan’s cheek, hugged her hard. “I’ll come back if I can.” On impulse, she took a lemon from the bowl. She felt its skin against her palm and, lifting it, caught its scent. “I know it’s silly, but can I take this with me? Is that possible?”
“Let’s find out.” Branna took her hand, and when Iona pushed the lemon in her pocket, Connor the other.
“We’ve missed you back home, Cousin Mary Kate,” Connor told her.
“And I you. You’ll take me hawking one day soon, won’t you, Connor?”
“It’ll be a pleasure to me.”
“Tell your mother, and hers, when you see them, I look forward to a good gossip in person.”
“Come to the Dark Witch,” Branna told Nan. “There’ll be a fire burning for you, and the kettle on the boil.”
“I will, and thanks. My love goes with all of you, and every hope with it.”
“Bye, Nan. I love you.”
And again, she lifted, floated. Flew.
18
SHE FELT AMAZING, AND STILL BRANNA PUSHED A POTION ON HER.
“Your first time. It’s best if you level it out a bit now.”
“Can I do it again?”
Branna quirked her eyebrows while Connor grabbed two more cookies. “Now?”
“No, not this minute. I mean can I do it? Am I capable? On my own?”
“Connor and I were just along for the ride, you could say.” She stepped over to check her candles. “Helping you prepare, then going along to see you through.”
“Like being on a learner’s permit?”
“Sorry?”
“Learning to drive a car—I really have to deal with getting a car. It always gets pushed back, but . . . I am a little buzzed,” she admitted, and drank the potion.
“Learning to drive.” Connor considered, nodded. “Like that in a sense, yes. Where you need supervision until you can handle it on your own.”
“At least one of us
should go with you when you try again.”
“You sort of hypnotized me.”
“I helped you find the right meditative state, is all. You’ve a very active mind, and need practice quieting it.”
“It meant a lot to me to see her. Really see her.” Reaching in her pocket, Iona pulled out the lemon she’d taken from the blue and green bowl, brought it to her face to inhale the scent.
“Family’s the root, and the heart. Now, see what you can do with this.” She opened a drawer, took out a printed list.
“A wand tipped with a rose quartz crystal,” Iona read. “An athame, decorated with a Celtic trinity knot, a silver cup of the Fire Goddess, Belisma, a copper pentagram amulet.”
Frowning, Iona looked up. “The four elemental tools?”
“Very good, the wand for air, the knife for fire, and so on. Read on.”
“Okay, a sword with a bloodstone in the hilt, and its sheath; a spear with a sharpened tip of hematite; a shield decorated with a pentagram and hematite, amethyst, sunstone, and red jasper; and a cauldron with the symbol of fire. The four corresponding weapons.”
“You’ve studied. Now you’ll do a seeking spell, and find them.”
“Like a scavenger hunt?”
“In a way, yes, like that.”
“Well, I like a good game.”
“’Tisn’t one,” Connor told her. “But practice, and important. We’ll need to seek him out when we’re ready to take him on for once and done.”
“We’ll have an advantage if we know when and how he comes,” Branna added.
“Why don’t we seek him now? He’s got to have a lair of some kind. We could—”
“We’re not ready, and if we seek, he may know. He has power, and if we can’t block him, he’ll see. But when we’re ready, we’ll want him to see—what we want him to see. When the time comes,” Branna continued, “the three of us will seek and find, combining our power, as the three.”
“And Fin?”
“I . . .”
“It’s Fin who should seek, and find.” Connor turned to his sister, held her gaze with a quiet look. “He’s of the blood, and that would be for him.”
“You trust so much.”
“And you too little. It’s for him, Branna. You know it as I do.”
“All right, we’ll come to that when we do. But now let’s deal with this. This is for you to do, Iona. Do the spell, each one in turn, find what you seek, and bring each one in turn, here.”
“Okay.” She glanced at the list again, folded it into her pocket. Then closed her eyes and tried to visualize the wand. “What I see within my mind, I will seek and I will find. Bring it now before my eyes and I will go to where it lies. Slim and strong it calls to me. As I will, so mote it be.”
She saw it clearly, catching the late light of the sun on the little table by the window in the music room. “Be right back.”
Connor leaned on the counter where Branna began to meticulously label her cooled candle jars.
“It pains you, I know.” His voice stayed as quiet as his eyes. “But if you don’t accept what Fin is, what he truly is, and believe in him, in his loyalty, it limits us all.”
“I’m trying. I can get past the hurt, or can most days. Trust is a harder thing.”
“He’d die for you.”
“Don’t say it,” she snapped. “Do you think I’d want that? I only want to do what must be done, and I will. I will. You’re right that he should be the one to seek, to find. You’re right. Leave it at that for now.”
“All right, we’ll leave it there.” Then he smiled a little, to soothe her. “Want to time her?”
“No hurry.” Branna shrugged, relieved he could leave it, that he would, for her sake. “Some of them are easy to build her confidence. Others will take more.”
“Well then, I’m ready for a pint. Want one?”
“Hmm. A glass of wine might be nice. And don’t fool with the pork roast I have in the oven.”
“Pork roast?”
“Leave it be, and what’s in with it. I’ve got a timing spell on the lot as I didn’t know how long this would take. Bring the bottle, why don’t you, and a glass for Iona. She can have it when she’s done.”
Iona rushed in, flushed with victory, brandishing the wand. “Got it.”
“Nicely done. Set it down there, and find the next.”
“Okay. You’re labeling. I was going to help you.”
“There’ll be plenty more. The athame.”
“Right.” On a deep breath, Iona began again.
Connor had his pint and played a little tug-the-rope with the dog while Branna finished the first round of candles. Iona traveled back and forth, bringing in the listed items.
“Jesus, this spear.” Iona hefted it, miming a warrior as she strode back in. “Took me as long to find as everything else so far combined.”
Not quite, Branna thought, but long enough.
“I could see it, and the tree you had it leaning against outside, but I couldn’t tell which tree. So I did a secondary spell for that after I’d wandered around out there for a while.”
“A good choice. We’ll work a bit more so you’ll narrow it as we go.”
Iona gave a nod to the items she’d spread on a counter. “They’re all so cool. Anyway, just two more.”
The shield eluded her so long she nearly switched to the cauldron, but Branna had instructed each in turn, so she cleared her mind—a challenge, as it was so damn full—then refreshed the spell.
She found the shield—and oh my God, a work of art it was, hanging in the earthy, herby-smelling greenhouse.
“She’s done well,” Connor commented, rubbing the dog with his foot as the game had played out. “Under difficult circumstances.”
“She has, and they are. She’ll be better yet, as the circumstances will worsen.”
“Always a happy note in you, Branna.”
“Always a realistic one.” With the candles she’d finished boxed for transport to her shop, she began to set the ones she’d culled out on shelves.
“Found it.” Iona hauled in the cauldron. “In the little attic over your room, Branna—that I didn’t even know was there.”
“It’s not used for much. And so you’ve found all.”
“Each in its turn.” Iona set the cauldron by the rest. “Every one of them is beautiful, and unique.”
“So they are. Tools they may be, but I don’t see why a tool shouldn’t be beautiful as well as practical and useful. So they’re yours.”
“Sorry, what?” Because her mind was full again, Iona simply stared at Branna.
“They’re yours now.” Branna poured her a glass of wine, passed it to her. “Connor and I chose them for you, from what has been given to us, or what we collected, or what we found elsewhere since you came to us.”
“But—” Overwhelmed, she couldn’t come up with the words that so often rolled out of her mind and straight off her tongue.
“Every witch needs her own tools,” Branna continued. “And these are the most important of them. You’ll find and choose others for yourself along the way.”
“Fire comes easiest to you.” Connor rose to join them. “So the symbols are yours. And on the athame, the trinity knot for the three in you, and the three of us.”
“The rose quartz on the wand, for it seems your power comes from your instincts—the belly—and then passes through the heart. Bloodstone on the sword for strength.”
“Stones of protection—physical and psychic—for the shield. Hematite for your spear tip, for confidence in your air.” Connor tapped a finger on it. “And the pentacle of copper, Sorcha’s chosen medium.”
“I don’t know what to say to you.”
“The sword and shield have been passed down, blood to blood,” Branna told her. “The cup I found in a shop I favor, as Connor found the pentacle in another. So there’s a mix here of old and new.”
Tears she’d denied herself the night before wanted to rush up
now, from her heart. In sheer gratitude. “Thank you, more than I can say. It seems like so much, too much.”
“It’s not,” Branna corrected. “You must be armed for what’s coming.”
“I know. A sword.” Carefully, she drew it from its sheath. “I don’t know how to use it.”
“You will. Some will come through it to you.”
“Some,” Connor agreed. “And Fin can work with you, and Meara as well. She’s bloody good with a sword. Either Branna or I can help with the spear, but I think you’ll find the tool itself will fit your hand.”
“Once you’ve cleansed them, and recharged them,” Branna added. “That’s not for us to do. I think we’ll have dinner now. We can all use the break and the food. Then you’ll tend to them.”
“I’ll treasure them. Thank you. Thank you,” she repeated, taking Branna’s hand, then Connor’s, linking the three. “You’ve opened up my life in so many ways.”
“You’re part of ours. Come then, we’ll eat. I’ve prepared a special meal anticipating your success here. Bring your wine, as you’ve yet to drink it.”
“One day I’ll pay you back for all you’ve done.”
“It’s not a matter of payment, and can’t be.”
“You’re right. That was the wrong term. Balance. One day I’ll find the balance.”
She started on it by setting the table, and telling Connor he was banned from kitchen cleanup. He didn’t argue. Her mood, lifted from seeing Nan, from the gifts, went rising higher when she sampled the little feast Branna had prepared.
“God, this is so good! I know I’m hungry, but this is just amazing. I swear you could open your own restaurant.”
“That’s something I won’t be doing now, or ever. Cooking, like tools, is necessary. No reason it shouldn’t be good.”
“I wish mine was. I really have to learn.”
“Plenty of time for it, and more important things to learn now. Connor, Frannie at the shop tells me Fergus Ryan got drunk as two penny whores on holiday and walked into Sheila Dougherty’s house, thinking it was his own, stripped down to the skin and passed out on the living room sofa. Where a none-too-pleased Sheila Dougherty—she who’s about seventy-eight and mean as a rattlesnake—found him in the morning. What do you know of that?”
“I know of the black eye Fergus is sporting, and the knot raised on the back of his head from the whack of Mrs. Dougherty’s cane. And how he managed to grab only his boots and his aching head while trying to defend himself, and ran straight out with the old woman chasing him and flinging curses and whatever else came to hand.”
“I thought you would.” Branna picked up her wine. “Tell all.”
So the conversation turned to local gossip, business, stories. The kind of
