by Nora Roberts
With her hands clasped in her lap over skirts as gray as her eyes, Brannaugh stared into the fire. “It took eight for us to travel here. Her spirit came to you. I wish I could see her again, but I only see her in dreams.”
“She’s with you. I see her in you. In Eamon, in Teagan, but most in you. Her strength and beauty. Her fierce love of family. You’re of age now, Brannaugh. Of age where you must begin to think of making a family.”
“I have a family.”
“Of your own, as your own mother did. A home, darling, a man to work the land for you, babes of your own.”
She sipped her tea as Brannaugh remained silent. “Fial is a fine man, a good man. He was good to his wife while she lived, I can promise you. He needs a wife, a mother for his children. He has a fine house, far bigger than ours. He would offer for you, and he would open his house to Eamon and Teagan.”
“How could I wed Fial? He is . . .” Old was her first thought, but she realized he would be no older than her Bardan.
“He would give you a good life, give a good life to your brother, your sister.” Ailish picked up her sewing, busying her hands. “I would never speak of it to you if I believed he would not treat you with kindness, always. He is handsome, Brannaugh, and has a fine way about him. Will you walk out with him?”
“I . . . Cousin, I don’t think of Fial in that way.”
“Perhaps if you walk out with him you will.” Ailish smiled as she said it, as if she knew a secret. “A woman needs a man to provide, to protect, to give her children. A kind man with a good house, a pleasing face—”
“Did you wed with Bardan because he was kind?”
“I would not have wedded him hadn’t he been. Only consider it. We’ll tell him we wait until after the equinox to speak to you of it. Consider. Will you do that?”
“I will.”
Brannaugh got to her feet. “Does he know what I am?”
Ailish’s tired eyes lowered. “You are the oldest daughter of my cousin.”
“Does he know what I am, Ailish?”
It stirred in her now, what she held in, held back. Pride stirred it. And the light that played over her face came not only from the flickers of the fire.
“I am the oldest daughter of the Dark Witch of Mayo. And before she sacrificed her life, she sacrificed her power, passing it to me, to Eamon, Teagan. We are the three. Dark witches we.”
“You are a child—”
“A child when you speak of magicks, of power. But a woman when you speak of wedding Fial.”
The truth of that had a flush warming Ailish’s cheeks. “Brannaugh, my love, have you not been content here these last years?”
“Aye, content. And so grateful.”
“Blood gives to blood with no need for grateful.”
“Aye. Blood gives to blood.”
Setting her sewing aside again, Ailish reached for Brannaugh’s hands. “You would be safe, the daughter of my cousin. And you would be content. You would, I believe it, be loved. Could you want more?”
“I am more,” she said quietly, and went up to the sleeping loft.
* * *
BUT SLEEP ELUDED. SHE LAY QUIET BESIDE TEAGAN, WAITING for the murmurs between Ailish and Bardan to fade away. They would speak of this match, this good, sensible match. They would convince themselves her reluctance was only a young girl’s nerves.
Just as they had convinced themselves she, Eamon, and Teagan were children, like any others.
She rose quietly, slipped on her soft boots, her shawl. It was air she needed. Air, the night, the moon.
She climbed silently down from the loft, eased the door open.
Kathel, her hound, who slept by the fire, uncurled and, without question or hesitation, went out before her.
Now she could breathe, with the cool night air on her cheeks, with the quiet like a soothing hand on the chaos inside her. Here, for as long as she could hold it, was freedom.
She and the faithful dog slipped like shadows into the trees. She heard the bubbling of the river, the sigh of wind through the trees, smelled the earth, and the tinge from the peat smoke rising from the cottage chimney.
She could cast the circle, try to conjure her mother’s spirit. She needed her mother tonight. In five years, she’d not wept, not allowed herself a single tear. Now, she wanted to sit on the ground, her head on her mother’s breast, and weep.
She laid a hand on the amulet she wore—the image of the hound her mother had conjured with love, with magick, with blood.
Did she stay true to her blood, to what lived in her? Did she embrace her own needs, wants, passions? Or did she set that aside like a toy outgrown, and do what would ensure the safety and future of her brother and sister?
“Mother,” she murmured, “what should I do? What would you have me do? You gave your life for us. Can I do less?”
She felt the reaching out, the joining of power like a twining of fingers. Whirling around, she stared at the shadows. Heart racing, she thought: Ma.
But it was Eamon who stepped into the moonlight, with Teagan’s hand in his.
The keen edge of her disappointment sliced like a blade through her voice. “You are to be abed. What are you thinking wandering the woods at night?”
“You do the same,” Eamon snapped back.
“I am the oldest.”
“I am head of the family.”
“The puny staff between your legs doesn’t make you head of the family.”
Teagan giggled, then rushed forward, threw her arms around her sister. “Don’t be angry. You needed us to come. You were in my dream. You wept.”
“I am not weeping.”
“In here.” Teagan touched a hand to Brannaugh’s heart. Her deep, dark eyes—so like their mother’s—searched her sister’s face. “Why are you sad?”
“I am not sad. I only came out to think. To be alone and think.”
“You think too loud,” Eamon muttered, still smarting over the “puny” comment.
“And you should have more manners than to listen to others’ thoughts.”
“How can I help it when you shout them?”
“Stop. We will not quarrel.” Teagan might have been the smallest of them, but she didn’t lack in will. “We will not quarrel,” she repeated. “Brannaugh is sad, Eamon is like a man standing on hot coals, and I . . . I feel like I do when I’ve had too much pudding.”
“Are you ill?” Brannaugh’s anger whisked away. She peered into Teagan’s eyes.
“Not that way. Something is . . . not balanced. I feel it. I think you do, and you do. So we will not quarrel. We are family.” Still holding Brannaugh’s hand, Teagan reached for Eamon’s. “Tell us, sister, why you’re sad.”
“I . . . I want to cast a circle. I want to feel the light in me. I want to cast a circle and sit in its light with you. Both of you.”
“We rarely ever do,” Teagan said. “Because Ailish would we didn’t.”
“And she has taken us in. We owe her respect in her home. But we are not in her home now, and she need not know. I need the light. I need to speak with you within our circle, where no one can hear.”
“I will cast it. I practice,” Teagan told her. “When Alastar and I ride away, I practice.”
On a sigh, Brannaugh ran a hand down her sister’s bright hair. “It’s good you do. Cast the circle, deirfiúr bheag.”
2
BRANNAUGH WATCHED TEAGAN WORK, HOW HER SISTER pulled light, pulled fire out of herself, gave the goddess her thanks as she forged the ring. A ring wide enough, Brannaugh thought, with amusement and with gratitude, to include Kathel.
“You did well. I should have taught you more, but I . . .”
“Respected Ailish.”
“And worry as well,” Eamon put in, “that if we use our power too much, too strong, he’ll know. He’ll come.”
“Aye.” Brannaugh sat on the ground, looped an arm around Kathel. “She wanted us safe. She gave up everything for us. Her power, her life. She belie
ved she would destroy him, and we would be safe. She couldn’t know whatever black power he bargained with could bring him out of the ashes.”
“Weaker.”
She looked at Eamon, nodded. “Yes, weaker. Then. He . . . eats power, I think. He’ll find others, take from them, grow stronger. She wanted us safe.” Brannaugh drew a breath. “Fial wishes to wed me.”
Eamon’s mouth fell open. “Fial? But he’s old.”
“No older than Bardan.”
“Old!”
Brannaugh laughed, felt some of the tightness in her chest ease. “Men want young wives, it seems. So they can bear them many children, and still want to bed with them and cook for them.”
“You will not wed Fial,” Teagan said decisively.
“He is kind, and not uncomely. He has a house and farm larger than Ailish and Bardan. He would welcome you both.”
“You will not wed Fial,” Teagan repeated. “You do not love him.”
“I don’t look for love nor do I need it.”
“You should, but even if you close your eyes, it will find you. Do you forget the love between our mother and father?”
“I don’t. I don’t think to find such a thing for myself. Perhaps one day you will. So pretty you are, and bright.”
“Oh, I will.” Teagan nodded wisely. “As you will, as Eamon will. And we will pass what we are, what we have, to those who come from us. Our mother wanted this. She wanted us to live.”
“We would live, and well, if I wed Fial. I am the oldest,” Brannaugh reminded them. “It is for me to decide.”
“She charged me to protect you.” Eamon folded his arms across his chest. “I forbid it.”
“We will not quarrel.” Teagan snatched their hands, gripped hard. Flame shimmered through their joined fingers. “And I will not be tended to. I am not a babe, Brannaugh, but the same age as you when we left our home. You will not marry to give me a home. You will not deny what you are, ignore your power. You are not Ailish, but Brannaugh, daughter of Sorcha and Daithi. You are a dark witch, and ever will be.”
“One day we will destroy him,” Eamon vowed. “One day we will avenge our father, our mother, and we will destroy even the ash we burn him into. Our mother has told me we will, or those who come from us will, if it takes a thousand years.”
“She told you?”
“This morning. She came to me while I was on the river, in the mists and the quiet. I find her there when I need her.”
“She comes to me only in dreams.” Tears Brannaugh wouldn’t shed clogged her throat.
“You hold what you are so tight.” To soothe, Teagan stroked her sister’s hair. “So not to upset Ailish, so to protect us. Perhaps you only allow her to come in dreams.”
“She comes to you?” Brannaugh murmured. “Not only in dreams?”
“Sometimes when I ride Alastar, when we go deep into the woods, and I hold myself quiet, so quiet, she comes. She sings to me as she used to when I was little. And it was our mother who told me we will have love, we will have children. And we will, by our blood, defeat Cabhan.”
“Am I to marry Fial then, bear him the child, the blood, who will finish it?”
“No!” Tiny flames flickered at Teagan’s fingertips before she remembered control. “There is no love. The love comes, then the child. This is the way.”
“It is not the only way.”
“It is our way.” Eamon took Brannaugh’s hand again. “It will be our way. We will be what we are meant, do what we must do. If we don’t try, what they sacrificed for us is for nothing. They would have died for nothing. Do you want it so?”
“No. No. I want to kill him. I want his blood, his death.” Struggling, Brannaugh pressed her face to Kathel’s neck, soothed herself with his warmth. “I think part of me would die if I turned away from what I am. But I know all of me would if a choice I make brings harm to either of you.”
“We choose, all of us,” Eamon said. “One by three. We needed this time. Our mother sent us here so we could have this time. We are not children now. I think we were no longer children when we rode from home that morning, knowing we would never see her again.”
“We had power.” Brannaugh breathed deep, straightened. Though he was younger, and a boy for all that, her brother spoke true. “She gave us more. I asked you both to let it lie still.”
“You were right to ask it—even if we woke it now and then,” Eamon added with a smile. “We needed the time here, but this time is coming to a close. I feel it.”
“As I do,” Brannaugh murmured. “So I wondered if it meant Fial. But no, you’re right, both of you. I am not for the farm. Not for kitchen magicks and parlor games. We will look, here within the circle. We will look, and see. And know.”
“Together?” Teagan’s face glowed with joy as she asked, and Brannaugh knew she’d held back herself, her sister and brother too long.
“Together.” Brannaugh cupped her hands, brought the power up, out. And dropping her hands down like water falling, she made the fire.
And the making of it, that first skill learned, the purity of the magick coursed through her. It felt as if she’d taken her first full breath in five years.
“You have more now,” Teagan stated.
“Aye. It’s waited. I’ve waited. We’ve waited. We wait no more. Through the flame and the smoke, we’ll seek him out, see where he lurks. You see deeper,” she told Eamon, “but have a care. If he knows we look at him, he will look at us.”
“I know what I’m about. We can go through the fire, fly through the air, over water and earth, to where he is.” He laid a hand on the small sword at his side. “We can kill him.”
“It will take more than your sword. For all her power, our mother couldn’t destroy him. It will take more, and we will find more. In time. For now, we look only.”
“We can fly. Alastar and I. We . . .” Teagan trailed off at Brannaugh’s sharp look. “It just . . . happened one day.”
“We are what we are.” Brannaugh shook her head. “I should never have forgotten it. Now we look. Through fire, through smoke, with shielded sight as we invoke. To seek, to find, his eyes we blind, he who shed our blood. Now our power rises in a flood. We are the three. As we will, so mote it be.”
They gripped hands, joined their light.
Flames shifted; smoke cleared.
There, drinking wine from a silver cup, was Cabhan. His dark hair fell to his shoulders, gleamed in the light of the tallows.
Brannaugh saw stone walls, rich tapestries covering them, a bed with curtains of deep blue velvet.
At his ease, she thought. He had found comfort, riches—it didn’t surprise her. He would use his powers for gain, for pleasure, for death. For whatever suited his purpose.
A woman came into the chamber. She wore rich robes, had hair dark as midnight. Spellbound, Brannaugh thought, by the blind look in her eyes.
And yet . . . some power there, some, Brannaugh realized. Struggling to break the bonds that locked it tight.
Cabhan didn’t speak, merely flicked a hand toward the bed. The woman walked to it, disrobed, stood for a moment, her skin white as moonshine glowing in the light.
Behind those blind eyes, Brannaugh saw the war waged, the bitter, bitter fight to break free. To strike out.
For a moment, Eamon’s focus wavered. He’d never seen a grown woman fully naked, nor one with such large breasts. Like his sisters he sensed that trapped power—like a white bird in a black box. But all that bare skin, those soft, generous breasts, the fascinating triangle of hair between her legs.
Would it feel like the hair on her head? He desperately wanted to touch, just there, and know.
Cabhan’s head came up, a wolf scenting the air. He rose so quickly, the silver cup upended, spilling wine red as blood.
Brannaugh twisted Eamon’s fingers painfully. Though he yelped, flushed as red as the fire, he brought his focus back.
Still, for a moment, a terrible moment, Cabhan’s eyes seemed to look
straight into his.
Then he walked to the woman. He gripped her breasts, squeezed, twisted. Pain ran over her face, but she didn’t cry out.
Couldn’t cry out.
He pinched her nipples, twisted them until tears ran down her cheeks, until bruises marred the white skin. He struck her, knocking her back on the bed. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, but she only stared.
With a flick of his wrist, he was naked, and his cock fully erect. It seemed to glow, but not with light. With dark. Eamon sensed it was like ice—cold and sharp and horrible. And this he rammed into the woman like a pike while the tears ran down her cheeks and the blood trickled from her mouth.
Something inside Eamon burst up with outrage—a vicious, innate fury at seeing a woman treated thus. He nearly pushed through that fire, that smoke, but Brannaugh gripped his hand, twisting bone against bone.
And while he raped her—for it was nothing else—Eamon felt Cabhan’s thoughts. Thoughts of Sorcha, and the terrible lust for her that he’d never quenched. Thoughts of . . . Brannaugh. Of Brannaugh, and how he would do this to her, and more. And worse. How he would give her pain before he took her power. How he would take her power before he took her life.
Brannaugh quenched the fire quickly, ended the vision on a snap. And as quickly grabbed Eamon by both arms. “I said we were not ready. Do you not think I felt you gather to go?”
“He hurt her. He took her power, her body, against her will.”
“He nearly found you—he sensed something pushing in.”
“I would kill him for his thoughts alone. He will never touch you as he did her.”
“He wanted to hurt her.” Teagan’s voice was a child’s now. “But he thought of our mother, not of her. Then he thought of you.”
“His thoughts can’t hurt me.” But they’d shaken her, deep inside herself. “He will never do to me, or to you, what he did to that poor woman.”
“Could we have helped her?”
“Ah, Teagan, I don’t know.”
“We did not try.” Eamon’s words lashed out. “You held me here.”
“For your life, for ours, for our purpose. Do you think I don’t feel what you feel?” Even the secret fear drowned in an icy wave of rage. “That it stabbed a thousand times to do nothing? He has power. Not what he had, but different. Not more, but less, and still different. I don’t know how to fight him. Yet. We don’t know, Eamon, and we must know.”
“He’s coming. Not tonight, not tomorrow, but he’ll come. He knows you . . .” Eamon flushed again, looked away.
“He knows I can bear children,” Brannaugh finished. “He thinks to get a son from me. He never will. But he’s coming. I felt it as well.”
“Then we must go.” Teagan tipped her head to Kathel’s flank. “We must never bring him here.”
“We must go,” Brannaugh agreed. “We must be what we are.”
“Where will we go?”
“South.” Brannaugh looked at Eamon for confirmation.
“Aye, south, as he is still north. He remains in Mayo.”
“We will find a place, and there we will learn more, find more. And one day we will go home.”
