Household Colors

The duties for formal banquets, as it turned out, were numerous and complicated, and Dael supposed he should have paid better attention instead of smiling at Flavia, because the tunica Quintus was trying to force on him was hideous.

“They’re the household colors,” Quintus insisted. “All who serve at table will be wearing them.”

“A corpse wouldn’t be seen wearing them,” Dael said.

“You have to wear it, it’ll be the lash for you.” Quintus waggled the tunica warningly.

Dael sighed. “Fine. I’ll wear it.”

He pretended he didn’t see Flavia stifle laughter when he stepped into the dining room.

Her Happiness

Dael could only sputter wordlessly, but then Flavia turned and walked away, and Quintus came to tell him Tertius was looking for him.

Later, when Tertius was informing Dael he’d been restored to his former duties, Dael spotted Flavia with Tertius’s lieutenant, reviewing the guest list. Her expression was grim, and there was an air of exhaustion about her.

Tertius had just started in on Dael’s extensive list of duties for formal banquets when Flavia looked up.

Dael caught her gaze and smiled.

She smiled back, her happiness emerging from her exhaustion like the sun from behind a storm cloud.

Size Isn't Everything (Reprise)

He swallowed carefully, then straightened up. “It is sweet,” he said.

Flavia smiled, pleased. “Do you think it’s sweet enough to catch tadpoles?”

It was Dael’s turn to be confused. “Perhaps, but...it’s too big, don’t you think? It might crush the tadpole.”

“Maybe.”

Flavia leaned in, gazed into his eyes, and he swallowed hard.

“But remember,” she said, “size isn’t everything.” And she patted the top of his head.

Dael knew the condescending gesture, had endured it from his brother all his life. “Oy! I’m not short!”

Flavia’s eyes were bright with suppressed mirth. “I never said you were.”

Juice and Skin

Dael caught it easily. “Do you wish to play a game?” he asked, turning it over in his hands. It had a pocked surface, was spongy.

Flavia laughed softly and came toward him. “No - it’s fruit. From Hispania. You must peel it before you eat it. Watch.”

Dael handed the ball back to her and watched her sink her nails into the surface, peel back to a layer of pale whiteness. And then a translucent orange wedge fell onto her palm. She offered it to him.

“Try it - it’s sweet,” she said.

He leaned forward, tasted juice and her skin.

Something Sweet

Dael said, “You might try a net, or perhaps a treat. What do tadpoles like to eat?”

“I don’t know,” Flavia said.

“Maybe something sweet?” Dael suggested.

Flavia shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe.”

Someone shouted from the kitchen, and both turned back to the house.

Dael hefted his water jars. “I’d better get moving.”

Flavia nodded. “We both have duties.”

“Farewell, Flavia. For now.” And Dael headed for the well.

Later that afternoon, he spotted Flavia as she returned from sword practice. She trotted up the veranda and paused, called his name.

She added, “Catch.”

She threw him an orange ball.

Size Isn't Everything

Flavia looked up. “Pardon?”

“The face on the surface of the water is beautiful,” Dael said quietly. “You keep destroying it.”

At first, Flavia was confused; then a cautious smile settled over her features.

“I’m trying to catch a tadpole,” she said.

Dael didn’t know the word, and Flavia explained with gestures and sound effects. Eventually, Dael realized she meant a baby frog.

“They’re tiny,” he said, peering into the fountain.

“Makes them hard to catch,” Flavia said, and met his gaze briefly before turning back to the water.

Dael said, “Size isn’t everything,” and lifted an eyebrow.

Flavia laughed.

Images Marred

The day after that, when Dael rose early in the morning and started for the well with water jugs under each arm, he saw Flavia again. This time she was sitting in the garden, on the edge of the fountain, staring at her reflection. Every once in a while, she’d reach out, hand darting fast as a snake, and thrust her hand into the water.

Each time, her hand came out empty.

Dael came to stand beside her, curious.

On the surface of the water, he saw her reflection.

She struck the water again.

“Why mar such a lovely image?”

After the Banquet

The next day, while Dael was hauling jars of water into the kitchen, he spotted Flavia on the veranda again. He knew from the glow of her skin and her tousled hair she’d been out practicing with her sword. She was leaning on the railing and gazing out at the garden, eyes distant.

He paused beside her a respectful distance away. “My lady.”

She slewed him a sideways glance.

He corrected himself. “Flavia.”

She half-smiled. “Dael.”

“I hope practice was well,” he said.

Her smile brightened. “It was very well. Perhaps,” she said, “after the banquet, you'll join me.”

Hope, Restore

“Cook says you’ve been great help preparing for the banquet.” Flavia looked at him hopefully.

Dael knew better than to upset a member of the household proper and met her gaze. “I have learned much about cooking.”

Flavia must have seen the hesitation in his eyes, for she nodded and took a respectful step back. She went from exhausted girl to lady of the house in a single instant; Dael envied her ability to pretend.

“I will have Tertius restore you to you former duties. I’ll need you nearby for the banquet.” She turned away, paused. “Don’t forget your sword.”

Missing

He bowed his head deferentially and said, “Mistress.”

She sighed. “I didn’t mean to make you – I’m sorry.”

Dael lifted his head, startled. He hadn’t realized how long it had been since he’d heard those words.

“I didn’t mean for Tertius to banish you to the kitchen.”

“I cannot question your wisdom in running your household –”

“I’ve missed you,” she said suddenly.

Dael fell quiet. He wanted to tell her he’d missed her too, he’d been desperate to kiss her again.

“I miss sparring with you, and...”

Of course. She missed her pet. Dael bit his lip and looked away.

Same Skies

The veranda stretching around the entire perimeter of the house afforded him excellent views of the night sky, and he wondered why he’d never looked before. Somewhere far away, his mother was looking at the same night sky, he knew it.

Dael tilted his head back and inhaled deeply, curled his hands into fists. He could feel it, blue power dancing just beneath a skin. On a night like this, if he wished it enough, he could raise a man from the dead.

Footsteps startled him, and he spun, ready for a bow or a sharp word.

Flavia said, “Dael.”

Born-Day

Dael knew his born-day instinctively, always woke the with a sense of alive he didn’t feel any other day of the year. Back home he’d know by the colors of the plants his born-day was close. Here, in this prison-land, he woke to it suddenly. When he took his waking breath, his first thought was that he’d see Ma, Da, and Cerdic. They’d eat all his favorite foods and share gifts.

Then he remembered where he was, so he worked silently all day, and saved enough energy to slip out and look at the stars that night.

Unnumbered Days

Dael spent the next unnumbered days - too many to count - banished to the kitchens, scrubbing and chopping and hauling, boiling and scraping and kneading. Quintus looked sympathetic, but Tertius just looked smug, as if Dael had received some sort of comeuppance he hadn’t even known he deserved. Most days Dael didn’t even get to stick his nose out of the kitchen, and if he had any notions of wandering around during his free time, Cook kept him so busy he just collapsed onto his pallet.

The few times he glimpsed Flavia, he noticed she looked as drained as he felt.

Cursed the Gods

Flavia shook her head. “No. I can’t. I’m sorry.” She turned and fled.

Dael started after her and nearly tripped over her sword. He caught himself just in time to watch Flavia vanish around the corner. He sighed, picked up the sword. He was a fool. She was his owner; he was just a slave who was particularly good at meeting her every strange whim, like sword-fighting and calling her by her given name.

But he was still a slave, and she was the one who owned him.

Dael cursed the gods, picked his sword, and headed for home.

No, Please, Again

Dael sucked in a shuddering breath. He tried to say her name, but instead of words what came out was a moan when his lips brushed hers, and then they were kissing.

Kissing.

He’d once kissed Damia, a girl in his village, when he was five, and Cerdic had told tales of kissing girls, how it was like dying and coming alive all at once, the world roaring in black and white and stars behind his eyelids and –

Flavia jerked back, her eyes wide, her expression stricken. “Dael, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have –”

He reached for her. “No, please, again.”

Not Alone

Dael’s breath caught - up close, her eyes really were golden, flame-bright.

“Mistress,” he began, and she shook her head. The tip of her nose brushed his.

“I told you - call me Flavia,” she whispered.

She was close enough Dael could feel her warmth, could feel his own heart racing against his ribs.

“We’re not so different, you and I,” Flavia said, and she was so close their lips almost touched. “Both of us kidnapped, taken to places unknown, and burdened with inexplicable power.”

Fire. She could make fire. That’s why Dael felt so warm.

“With you I’m not alone.”

Nose-to-Nose

“I’m sure Angelus thinks so,” Flavia said. “But this place is so...different. Women here, while many are intelligent and well-spoken are fierce...” She shook her head. “I’m as much as a slave as you are - you just can’t see my chains.” She sat up. “But you’re right - I suppose I should head back, see to the banquet he’s hosting next week. We’ll have lots to prepare.”

Dael hauled his tired body to his feet, offered a hand to her. When he pulled her up, she rose lightly as a dancer, and then they were almost nose-to-nose.

Other Things

When they were exhausted, Flavia toppled over into the grass, her delighted laughter ringing in the air.

“You’re getting much better,” she said. “We can practice every day now.”

Dael sprawled beside her, careful to keep his sword within reach. He noticed she had done the same. “If you wish it.”

“You know I do.”

“Not to sound...impertinent, but don’t you have other things to do besides teach an uppity, disobedient slave how to wield a sword?” He tilted his head to look at her. In the fading sunlight, she was beautiful, the setting sun turning her skin golden.

Confused Moments

Dael didn’t know when Flavia spoke to Angelus, but one morning when he and Quintus were huddled over their morning bowls of gruel, Tertius stepped into the room and demanded Dael to his feet. Dael scrambled to obey, bowed, and had to fight off the urge to recoil when two servants descended and began putting their arms around his waist. A few confused moment later, he had a sword belt strapped to his waist, complete with a version of the sword he used to practice with Flavia.

And ten minutes later, he and Flavia were sparring in an open field.

Something Else

Dael rolled his eyes. “Living with the gods, or roaming the stars? You believe that?”

“Maybe. And maybe it’s something else.” Flavia tugged on his shoulder. “Hurry along now - we have things to do if we want to make this work.”

“Shouldn’t we train with a sword some more?”

“Yes, you should,” she said. “I need to have a word with Angelus and ensure you will have permission to carry a sword.”

Dael’s eyes lit up. “My own sword?”

“For my protection, of course. You saw how those guards were.” Flavia turned her nose up and mock-sniffed. “You ready?”

After Death

“Yes, me,” Dael agreed quietly.

Flavia sighed. Then she stepped closer, put a hand on his shoulder. “We won’t be like this forever. We’re both destined for greater things.”

“Really?” Dael lifted his head, searched her face.

“Really. Things now are complicated, but if we do this right, things will get better, and eventually we’ll be free of everything.”

Dael remembered the murmurs and groans of the men packed onto that ship with them, as they tossed on the waves and fell further and further from home.

“We’ll be free of everything when we’re dead.”

“There is life after death.”

Look at You

“How...?”

“Same way you do, I expect,” Flavia said. She shrugged. “I just...know how.” Her smile widened. “It’s always wonderful to find someone else who’s like us.”

“Us? Then Master Angelus –” Dael remembered himself and scrambled to catch up to Flavia.

“Don’t ask,” she said. “But yes. We aren’t so different, you and I.”

“I suppose you’re never cold in winter,” Dael said.

“And you are never ill.”

Dael nodded. “It’s true. But...why do you need me to protect you, if you can do that?”

“Because we’re not omnipotent, no matter our gifts. After all, look at you.”

Forward, Back

Dael believed her. There was something in her ringing tones, in her fierce golden eyes - he knew she could protect him. Just as he would protect her.

Then he said, “You won’t tell Master Angelus about what I can do,” he said.

Flavia turned and started toward home. “If you don’t want me to. I suspect he already knows.”

Dael stood rooted to the spot, shocked. “What? How?”

“Because he knows what I can do.”

“What you can do?”

Flavia smiled over her shoulder, and fluttered her fingers at him. Flames danced on her fingertips.

Dael fell back a step.

Duties and Promises

“Anything, Flavia,” Dael said.

She eyed him shrewdly, and for the first time in a long time Dael knew it was right to lift his head, draw himself tall.

“You must be willing to keep my secrets, even from Master Angelus,” she said.

He nodded. Was she going to overthrow her own cousin?

“And you must learn to become a fighter, better than any petty Roman soldier,” she said.

He nodded again. She’d been teaching him. He could learn, right? Of course, those soldiers were professionals, had gone to wars, slaughtered his people --

“I will keep you safe,” she said.

With Anything

As they walked home, Flavia told Dael a wonderful tale about an orphan boy raised in a forest like a half-wild animal who became a king after he was chosen by a magical gladius planted in a stone plinth. Just as Flavia was getting to the good part, where the boy’s former tormentors were forced to bow and confess him king, she paused.

“Dael,” she said, and she was still one of the few who could say his name right, bothered to say his name at all. “Will you help me?”

“With anything, my lady.”

“Please, call me Flavia.”

Grateful Tales

“I’ll heal,” Flavia said, ducking away from his hand, but Dael caught her chin and dragged her close.

“Let me,” he said again. Blue power sparked at his fingertips.

Flavia jumped, but she didn’t pull away, and Dael let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Everyone heals,” Dael said. And he smiled tentatively. “Maybe some people ought to heal faster.” He pushed the power into her gently, and her eyes fluttered closed.

“Thank you,” she whispered when it was done. Then her eyes opened, and she said, “Have you ever heard the tale of the sleeping king?”

All Right, Fine

A bugle sounded across the city, and the soldiers cursed, turned. They flung insults over their shoulders at Flavia and then fell into formation, marched on the double. Dael watched them go and wished Flavia let him carry his training gladius with him.

Not that he’d have been a match for any of the soldiers.

Once they were gone, Dael turned and helped Flavia to her feet.

“Are you all right?” he asked in broken Latin.

“Fine,” Flavia muttered, but her words were slurred from her wound. She pressed a hand to her mouth gingerly.

“Let me see,” Dael said.

Only So Powerful

Angelus wasn’t so powerful that Dael didn’t find himself standing between Flavia and four young men dressed as soldiers. Flavia pushed herself up, pressed a hand to the corner of her mouth where it bled. Her eyes blazed.

Dael knew that fury. He’d felt it himself the first time he realized he was property in this land.

The soldiers laughed, flung the word “stranger” at Flavia. Dael wasn’t sure what they were saying, but he knew it was rude from the way Flavia’s mouth tightened.

Dael held his arms out to shield her, and one of the soldiers stepped closer.

Stranger, Powerful

He didn’t have a chance to ask her about it for nearly a week, and then it was after they’d sparred beyond the fields again (he was getting minimally better, he thought), and he was out of breath.

Flavia looked barely stirred by the exhaustion.

“You don’t like the other women, do you?”

“They would marry my cousin and displace me from my own house,” Flavia said. “It is not easy, being a stranger in this land, and it is dangerous, being a powerful stranger.”

“You’re not citizens?”

“No, but Angelus is too powerful for anyone to complain of it.”

Somehow He Knew

What was more exhausting than sparring and shopping was dinner parties where Angelus’s soldier friends and their wives or sisters came to lounge around the house all day eating, making conversation, and listening to musicians play.

Dael was assigned to wait on Flavia, who was apparently assigned to make everyone happy. Dael couldn’t understand the words being flung rapidly back and forth between the cushioned benches everyone reclined on, but he knew these people were wealthy from the way they were dressed and their own servants cowered, moving among Angelus’s own.

And somehow he knew Flavia was angry at everything.

All Again

After sparring with Flavia beyond the fields, following her through the markets as she ordered food for the household, and waiting on Flavia and Angelus at supper (under Tertius’s watchful eye), Dael was exhausted. He fell onto the pallet beside Quintus’s and was asleep before he took his next breath.

When he awoke, Quintus shoved a bowl of gruel at him and attempted to ask where he’d been the day before. Dael didn’t know how to explain, and he suspected he shouldn’t tell anyone about the gladius, so he shrugged - and groaned at the thought of doing it all again.

What's In It For

“You bought me to...set me free?” Dael narrowed his eyes. “What’s in it for you?”

“I’m not setting you free - you’re earning it,” Flavia said. “What’s in it for me?” She paused, considered, and Dael had a moment to study her face properly, clear of the wariness she wore around the other Roman citizens. And she was - young. Perhaps younger than him.

And she was lovely.

And then she began to move, made the blade sing through the air, and Dael felt his heart leap into his throat.

“What’s in it for me is a sparring partner. Guard up!”

Almost Gods

“People aren’t property,” Dael spluttered. “You can’t treat me like –”

“I own you? Because I do. Paid good money, too. And we clothe and feed and house you,” Flavia said.

“I’m a person!”

“As am I. And yet I can be bought and sold, same as you. For me they’ll call it marriage, for you it’s called servitude.” Flavia looked at him steadily. “Now, learn to use that gladius well, and perhaps one day you can buy your freedom.”

Dael took a deep breath. “Really? How?”

“In the colosseum. The best gladiators are almost gods. You could earn the money.”

Neither Man Nor Protector

“Should you be out here alone with a man?” Dael accepted the sword warily.

“You’re a slave, not a man, so no one will care. Usually Angelus sends Tertius with me, but he let me buy you for my own purposes, so as far as Rome cares, you’re my new chaperone and protector.”

“Not a man?” Dael spluttered. “How dare you –”

“Not that I really need protecting.” Flavia poked around in a cluster of bushes on the side of the path and came up with another sword. She unsheathed it, brandished it. “Are you ready to learn some more Latin?”

Bad Habits

A gladius was a sword, a short, broad thing Dael had seen the soldiers wield, different from the sleek spears. Flavia shrugged off her cloak and hung it from a bough, and she wore a sheath at her waist.

“Women here are soldiers?” Dael goggled. It made some sense - her master (brother? Husband? Surely not father?) was a soldier.

“No,” Flavia said, “which is why we’re out past the farmers.” She added, “Agricolae,” for good measure. “Do you know how to use one of these?”

“I was a farmer,” Dael said flatly.

“Good. Then you won’t have any bad habits.”

New Words

Oddly enough, Dael learned a lot by doing. Flavia took him walking first.

(“Ambulare, to walk.”

“So we’re...ambulare?”

“No. Ambulas. You walk. Ambula. I walk.”

“What’s the word for I?”

“Well...ego, sort of.”

“So...ego ambula?”

“No, just ambula.”

“But if ego means ‘I’ –”

“Ambula all on its own means ‘I walk’.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Shut up and keep walking.”)

Dael tried to remember all the new words, but it wasn’t going well. Flavia tried refusing to talk to him in his own language, but he knew so little it was hopeless.

“You’ll like this word - gladius.”

By Doing

“I’m sure they do.” Flavia looked amused, and Dael suspected she knew about how the maidservants would coo over him and pet his hair. He really was a baby lamb, wasn’t he?

“First things first,” Flavia said, “you could do with a Latin lesson or two.”

“Latin,” Dael said. “That’s what they call their tongue?”

Flavia tilted her head to the side. “What do you call yours?”

“You speak it. What do you call it?” Dael shot back, and Flavia’s golden eyes sparked.

Dael remembered himself and ducked his head, terrified, but then Flavia said,

“Come on. Learn by doing.”

Special

Dael lifted his head again, and he was startled to find Flavia almost nose to nose with him. Her eyes were truly golden, like that of a hawk or a wolf, and something in them glimmered - like laughter.

“Yes, Angelus really did choose well,” she said. She sat back, smoothed down her skirts, and she was smiling fondly at Dael the way some girls smiled at newborn lambs.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, wary. “What are you looking at?”

“You.” Flavia sighed happily. “You’re special, aren’t you?”

“Lots of people have hair this color where I come from.”

Properly

Tertius, who really must have been able to read minds, nudged Dael in the spine and growled, and Dael bowed his head, the gesture a token of respect but really to hide the hatred in his eyes.

He was a person, and he was being treated little better than a horse.

“Have fun with him, Flavia,” Angelus said, and he stood up, swept out of the room.

“I will, My Lord,” Flavia said. Something about the way she uttered ‘My Lord’ was dry. Then she spoke rapidly to Tertius, who grumbled but left.

“Now,” Flavia said, “look at me properly.”

Consequences and Fury

“Dael,” he said, emphasizing both syllables.

“I am Flavia, though Tertius and the others may expire from righteous indignation if you call me anything but ‘Mistress’,” she said. “His name is Angelus, but you should probably call him ‘Master’.”

“I want to go home,” Dael said.

Tertius smacked him upside the head.

“Your home is gone,” Angelus said easily.

“You mean you –”

“Not us. Another one of the kings in your land, I suspect.” Angelus shrugged. “Never you mind. You belong to Flavia now. You’ll do as she says, or you won’t like the consequences.”

Dael choked back his fury.

Answer, Slaughter

Tertius jabbed Dael in the spine again, and he lifted his head, twisted around with a snarl - and there was a hand on his chin, tugging him around to face –

Her.

The woman from beneath the red hood, Dael was sure of it. Belatedly, he realized she, too, had been speaking his language. She had dark skin, different from the other servants in the house, different even from the master’s, and her eyes were bright, golden, and fierce, like a wolf.

“You picked well,” she said to the soldier, and then to Dael, “What’s your name?”

Tertius answered, slaughtered it.

Your Eyes

Dael lifted his head sharply, and there, sprawled across the stone bench was none other than the soldier who’d captured him. He was without cape and armor, grinning. He looked almost like a prince.

Tertius kneed Dael in the spine, and he remembered himself, lowered his head. As much as the other servants were nice, they were fiercely loyal. Dael would have sworn they could read his mind and sense the moments rebellion rose in him, urging him to flee or disobey or drop everything he was doing and cry out –

“Lift your head. I want to see your eyes.”

Question of Choice

Dael knew from the whispering in the halls, the sudden scattering of servants, heads bowed, that the master and mistress were about, and only special servants could look upon them.

But the old man - Tertius - dragged Dael up, up, up to the main chamber where the master and mistress stayed. He shoved Dael to his knees in front of a wide stone bench, and Dael bowed his head. He heard the whisper of robes, the familiar cadence of a soldier’s boots.

And then a familiar voice said, in Dael’s own tongue,

“What do you think, Flavia? Did I choose well?”

Never To Go

It took Dael a day or three of following the young man around to figure out his name was Quintus and Quintus had named Dael, against his will, Angel. Dael tried to correct him, but Quintus couldn’t seem to wrap his name around the syllables and Dael was stuck, to dismay, with Del. Quintus did simple jobs, mostly carrying things around the massive house, moving furniture and transporting firewood into the upper rooms.

Dael was just learning his way around the house when the old man reappeared and dragged Dael where Quintus had showed him he was never to go.

Angel and Quintus

The old man led Dael into a low, squat building below the main halls. Other servants in plain robes were gathered here and there - cooking, mending, cleaning. The old man barked a command, and several other servants surrounded Dael, stripped him of his clothes, scrubbed him down with hot water, and dressed him in one of the plain tunics the other men wore.

“Quis est vestri nomen?” one of them asked.

Another man ruffled Dael’s hair and said, “Angel.”

Dael wasn’t sure if it was an insult or kindness.

“Angel.” Then the man tapped his own chest and said, “Quintus.”

Followed

Water glittered as it cascaded across tiny stones all the colors of the rainbow arranged in patterns to look like birds and trees. Plants bowed and swayed in a gentle breeze, and Dael stopped, stared.

The woman glided past it all, seemingly oblivious to it. How could she not see the beauty, the wonder? Dael started after her - and was jerked backward abruptly as the old man yanked on his chain. The woman ascended the stairs, and other women in plainer robes - servants - came to relieve her of her cloak and hood.

The old man grunted, "Era," and Dael followed.

Far Away

It was a long walk back to wherever the old man and the woman lived, far beyond the bustling crowds of the markets. When the buildings became infrequent and crowds thin, Dael recognized fields - sort of. The trees were different from any he’d seen, and the hills were a rolling, deep red instead of the brown, sturdy earth he’d grown up farming.

And he could feel a different, deeper thrum of energy in the ground beneath him. He was somewhere else, somewhere far away.

The woman’s house was set atop a hill, a sprawling affair, gardens and courtyards – a palace.

Sold

One of the captors handed the old man the end of the chain still attached to the collar at Dael’s throat, and then he said, slowly, as if to a dumb animal,

“Prosecutus suus. Vestri era.”

Dael blinked, confused. The captor prodded him. The old man tugged, almost yanking Dael off his feet, and he understood well enough: go.

The woman turned, skirts whispering, and strode through the crowded market. People stepped out of her way, and Dael wondered if she was some sort of princess. The old man followed along, muttering about Flavia Magna.

Dael realized he’d been sold.

For Now, Blessed Rescuers

His captors hesitated, but then they moved forward, untied him and yanked him around to face the intervenors who, for now, were also blessed rescuers.

The man was ancient and stooped, a mass of wrinkles like a walnut shell, and wearing simple robes. The woman was - shadowed beneath a hood, bright red over the paleness of her robe, which was obviously finely crafted in comparison to the man’s.

She reached into the folds of her skirt and handed the old man a pouch. It clinked loudly when it landed on his palm, and Dael’s captors accepted it with eager greed.

Only Hope

Dael felt fear churn low in his gut when they tied him fast to a pole, and he heard the crack of a whip on the air.

And then a woman spoke, and the anger in his captors’ voices faded.

Dael tried to crane his neck to see over his shoulder who had frightened his captors, but all he saw was a giant bull of a man, tapping the crop of his whip impatiently on one hand.


The woman spoke again, and one of the captors cut her off, and then an old man spoke, and Dael could only hope.

Imminent

Dael got in two, three, four hits before several captors landed on him and dragged him back. Avery had dived to cover Osbert, which only disrupted the line further. Dael didn’t understand his captors’ language, but he knew profanity when he heard it, and he supposed he should have expected the sharp blow to the skull that followed once the fray was settled, but that didn’t mean it hurt less.

He was cut free of the line and dragged away from the others, and this was it - they would leave him be or kill him. Either way, escape was imminent.

Worth the Risk

Dael watched buyers come and go, watched his captors squabble or acquiesce, cut people loose and kick people loose, and he tried to figure out why some were chosen and some were not, what made a good slave. If he could make himself seem like he would be a terrible slave, maybe no one would want to buy him, and he would have time to plan an escape. Only what if the captors would kill anyone who didn’t get sold?

Dael decided to risk it, and he lashed out, punched the man on the other side of Osbert.

Chaos followed.

How it Works

Dael watched prospective buyers circling the people. Captor tipped boy’s head back, allowed a portly man in an odd white robe to check his teeth, prod at the boy’s arm and leg muscles. And then the man grabbed the boy, leered, and Dael felt his stomach roil.

Avery nudged him in the ribs. “Can you get us free? You know, with your...” He fluttered his fingers.

“It doesn’t work like that.” Dael sighed. “Sorry.”

“Maybe we can stay together,” Osbert said. “Whoever takes one of us has to take all of us.”

“Don’t think it works like that,” Avery said.

Most of Our Lives

Rome had markets, just as back home. In those markets, food, cloth, wine, and cattle were sold for use and slaughter. And people were sold alongside the cattle. Dael stared at the rows of people chained up. Most of the people on the other side of the market platform chained in winding rows wore clean clothes and looked even more exhausted and empty than any of Dael’s fellow captives.

“Some must have been slaves most of their lives,” Avery said.

“When we die, we will have been slaves most of our lives too,” Dael murmured and hoped Osbert wouldn’t hear.

Rome

Rome, the new place was called, or so said one of the other captives. Rome. Such a small word to encompass so massive a place, as if twenty villages and their markets had been dropped into this one confined place and everyone was intent on stepping on each other as much as possible.

Dael lost track of their captors, but he continued to see soldiers in flashing red capes patrolling the streets as new captors - gruffer, unwashed men - herded them along the eerily straight paths.

Rome was taking everything Dael had ever known and turning it all on its head.

The Journey

Dael remembered the beginning of the journey, being herded onto one of the massive ships like so many head of cattle. He remembered the end, stumbling onto a wooden dock on shaky legs, sweating and faint and hot and looking onto a sheer mass of humanity, more people than Dael ever thought possible crammed into one place. Massive gleaming buildings reared toward the sky, and there was noise, a hundred markets at once.

Dael couldn’t remember the middle of the journey, but Avery said it was for the best - he’d never seen someone be sick that many times without dying.

Tethered

“Just...be calm,” Dael said, and reached inside himself. The energy was weak, tethered to the waxing and waning of his own energy, but it was there, a coil of blue sparkles waiting for release. So Dael caught it up and pushed it out, into Avery’s forearm.

Avery hissed in a breath, eyes wide, and his gaze shot toward Dael. “You - how did you -”

Dael shook his head. “There you go. Should help a bit.” He held Avery’s gaze, warning, and Avery nodded slowly.

“Aye. Thanks. You are good with a mend.”

“Welcome.”

Behind him, the soldier watched - and smiled.


Hand for a Mend

“Why, did he kidnap you?” Osbert asked. “I was clubbed over the head by one of his thugs while I was farming.”

“I’m sure that’s how all you young’uns were snatched,” Avery said. “Half of us - we were caught on the battlefield.” He shifted, and Dael saw him wince.

“Where are you hurt?” Dael asked.

Avery shrugged. “Just a scratch.”

“I always had a good hand for a mend,” Dael said. “Let me have a look?”

“If you like.” Avery was stoic as Dael studied the gash.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

“You can’t be any worse than them.”

Personally? No

“Cold?” Dael remembered the man being charming, almost friendly. Callous with other human lives, but Dael suspected, if the man were not a soldier and Dael were not an enemy, they might have been friends.

“People mean nothing to him,” Avery said. “He kills as easily as most of us breathe.”

“The last stupid man who tried to escape –” Osbert began, but Avery cut him off with a sharp gesture.

“Dael’s just awakened. Means he can still sleep. No need to give him nightmares.”

“Did he kidnap you?” Dael asked.

“Personally?” Avery snorted. “No. He’s much too important for that.”


Strange, Dark, Cold

“My brothers went to fight,” the boy beside Dael said.

“As did my sons,” the man said. “Those bastards killed them.” He turned his head to the side and spat.

“My father and brother left,” Dael said. “They never came back.”

“The stories are the same all around,” the man said. “What’s your name?”

“Dael.”

“I’m Avery,” the man said.

“And I’m Osbert.” The boy smiled tiredly.

“Think we can escape?” Dael asked.

“More than one man has died trying.” Avery lifted his chin in the direction of the soldiers. “That leader, the strange dark one - he’s a cold one.”

On a Grim Necklace

The boat was bigger than any Dael had ever seen, the length of nearly four houses, and had a massive sail of billowing red, just like the soldiers’ capes.

Soldiers. Dael craned his neck, which resulted in tugging on the ropes and earned grumblings from the people on either side of him. Sure enough, the soldiers who’d stopped by his farm were seated at a fire in the middle of the camp, sharing food and drink, laughing.

More soldiers, bristling with weapons but without capes or horses, ringed the camp, guarding the slaves.

Slaves like beads on a grim necklace.

After the Boat

Dael came to on hard dirt. The air was cool, and the world beyond his eyelids was dark, flickering - distant firelight. He tried to sit up, and his neck burned.

“Another one’s coming around,” a boy said.

“Poor fool,” a man said. “Should stay asleep.”

Dael opened his eyes. “Where am I? What’s happening?” Then he noticed the rope at his throat, the same rope that bound him to the man and boy on either side of him.

“We’re being loaded onto that boat,” the man said. He was tanned and scarred, a seasoned warrior. “After that, I don’t know.”

What We Came For

One of the horses whinnied, threw its rider. That startled Ma into running. Dael leapt between her and the soldiers. Three of the other horses stamped and snorted, but the lead soldier’s horse remained eerily calm. He gazed down at Dael with something akin to recognition in his eyes, and before Dael knew what was what, he’d been plucked up and thrown across the man’s saddle.

The soldier said, deliberately for Dael to understand, “Forget the old woman. We have what we came for.”

Dael’s world jolted and spun as the horse lurched away, and then his world went white.

Pushing Gifts

The lead soldier laughed. “I know what I have gained, claiming you as a prize.”

“Angelus Caput,” one of the other soldiers said, and strange words flowed from his lips.

Dael put a hand on Ma’s shoulder, nudged. “Run,” he whispered.

She hesitated. The soldiers were arguing. Dael nudged her again.

“Now,” he hissed.

She was confused; the soldiers talked of slavery, but they seemed kind, almost jocular. She didn’t realize they’d probably killed her husband and other son.

“Run, Ma!” Dael yelled, and shoved.

The soldiers cried out, brought up their weapons.

Dael reached for his gift and pushed.

Won and the Choice is Yours

“A slave?” Ma echoed, puzzled. Dael put a hand on her wrist.

“You intend to make a slave of me?” he asked.

The soldier smirked. “A boy like you would fetch an excellent price.”

Dael met the man’s gaze. “What would you sell me for - a house, a field?”

“Maybe. Or perhaps the colosseum, or a lady’s bed.” The soldier smirked.

Colosseum. Dael had never heard the word before. The way the other soldiers chuckled, it couldn’t be good.

“You don’t know what you waste, turning me into a slave,” Dael said. “But you’ve won, and the choice is yours.”

Spirit for a Slave

The soldier spoke with a northern accent, but he had darker skin than Dael had ever imagined - he was stranger than most. Ma made the sign against evil. The other soldiers stirred, surprised at this soldier' ability to speak so fluently. 

"Vikings?"

"Fierce warriors.  Raiders.  Massive men, pale, in dragonboats," the soldier said. He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "You don't really look big enough to be one, but I haven't seen hair that color since, well, the Franks, but -"

"We know not the king," Dael said. 

The soldier blinked, confused, but then he laughed. "You have spirit - for a slave."

Who, Here

That Dael had golden hair was not completely odd - the men in the north were paler, like him.  But most people in the village paid more attention to Dael's gift than his hair.

One of the others spoke in a strange, rolling tongue that made Ma flinch. 

"What does the color of my hair matter? What of our fathers, brothers, friends?"

"They were defeated -" the soldier began, but the other soldier - Dael noticed he wore a different plume on his helmet - interrupted. An argument ensued, and then the other soldier dismounted, tugged off his helmet. 

"Did the Vikings land here?"

Soldiers, Golden

Ma's first instinct was to bow. Dael kept his head high, watched the riders draw to a halt at the end of the hedge. They wore gleaming helmets with tall feathered plumes, and they carried swords, spears. They were soldiers. 

The leader spoke without removing his helmet. "Where is your king?"

He spoke with an accent, but he head learned the language well, spoke it as one accustomed. Dael had never seen his kind before, but he knew who they were.

"Our king is distant. He doesn't even know we're alive," Dael said. 

The leader said, "You have golden hair."

Closer, Closer

The men in the village had nought but work drays. Those horses came up the road fast, a storm of dust flying in their wake. Dael ran to Ma’s side, and they shaded their eyes, watched as the horses came closer and closer.

For one moment, Dael thought the dark-haired man at the front was Bayard’s son Leofrick, but then Dael realized that the men were wearing bright red cloaks, too red to be blood, redder than anything but that worn by a king.

In the midday sun, the riders’ armor glinted, and Dael realized who they really were.

In the Distance, Riders

Ma made it seven days before waiting got the better of her. Dael was inspecting the hedges between his field and Bayard’s - his wife and aged father were tending the land in his stead - when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned and saw Ma running full tilt, faster than she’d ever run before, toward the end of the hedge, toward the road down which Cerdic and Da had gone.

Dael called after her. She was mad – she couldn’t run all the way to the shore herself.

And then he saw, in the distance, riders.

So Long As

Dael kept his head down, worked sunup to sundown, humming songs from his childhood and doing his best to remember what Da and Cerdic had taught him, using his talent when things seemed rough.

Ever since he was a small boy, he’d had the touch, the sparks of blue and gold at his fingertips that repaired a butterfly’s wing, that saved a dying apple tree. Everyone in the village knew of it, but none mentioned it, so long as he used it for good.

If he focused on the farm, he didn’t have time to worry about Da and Cerdic.

Hearth Fire

In the evening, Dael and Ma sat by the fire, Ma mending clothes and humming soft songs, and Dael sang with her, easy lullabies he remembered from childhood.

“You trying to put me to sleep?” Ma asked.

“We both need to sleep - we’re two doing the work of four,” Dael said.

Ma tried to smile and failed. “We’re doing it well.”

“That we are.” Dael eased himself to sit at her feet, rest his head against her knee. “Tell me about the dancing stones.”

Ma tangled a hand in his hair and said, “When all the world was very young...”

The Rising of the Sun

For the first time since he could remember, Dael woke with the rising of the sun to head into the fields to till the ground, tend to the goats and hens, to repair the fence and the roof where some of the thatching was thinning. Ma worked in the house, and Dael could hear her faint songs over the rhythm of the plow and hoe. Da would be proud of the rows Dael made, neat and deep and straight.

Dael watched the southern horizon, same as Ma and the others in the village, waiting to hear word from the cliffs.

Dael Knew

In the sunset, Dael saw that Ma wasn’t the only woman bidding farewell to a husband, son, or brother, that men from all the houses in the village were streaming south toward the white cliffs where, if a man stood on a clear day, he could see Brittany and Gaul where their cousins lived. Few men stayed behind - the elderly, sick, or lame, and Dael knew they thought him odd, but he knew he was doing right, staying to protect his mother.

He would make sure she was all right.

“C’mon, Ma,” he said. “Let’s have some of that supper.”

The Rush

“How do you know this is even true?” Ma asked as she stood beside Da and Cerdic at the door. “Old Man Bayard speaks nonsense all the time –”

“It wasn’t just Bayard,” Da said. “We must hurry. We will not prevail if we haven’t enough men.”

“Be careful,” Ma said. “I don’t like this. What’s with the rush? Surely you can stay for supper. I cooked for four people, and now half of it will go to waste –”

Da silenced her with a kiss. “Be safe, love. Dael will look out for you. Cerdic and I must go.”

Dael waved.

Given In

“Cerdic,” Ma began, but Dael moved to stand beside her as well.

“He’s strong - he and Da will be fine, show those upstarts what for.” Dael smiled gently.

Cerdic suppressed a grin. His eyes shone with gratitude when he nodded at Dael. “We’ll come back victorious, Ma,” he said.

Ma reached for the sack she used to pack provisions whenever Da went on a journey to another village. “You’ll need food and blankets to keep up your strength. All we’ve got is my father’s axe to fight with.”

Dael saw Da and Cerdic relax. Ma fussing meant she’d given in.

Show His Worth

“You’re not going to fight - I won’t let you,” Ma said.

Da crossed the house, put a hand on her arm. “We’ll be fine. We have the high ground - they’re still down in the water. But they need all the men they can get.”

“Go, Da,” Dael said. “I’ll stay here with Ma. That way they won’t take me, and one of us can still tend the farm.” He glanced at Cerdic; he knew Cerdic wanted to join the fight. Dael was special, had his ‘blessing’. Though he never mocked his brother, Cedric wanted his chance to show his worth.

So Bayard Says

Cerdic frowned. “Who, Da?”

Da was pale, frightened; Dael had never seen him frightened before. Da was the one who’d killed a fox with his bare hands when it went after the hens.

“Soldiers, in a boat that looks like a dragon. Wearing armor and carrying swords, spears. Dark fellows. Heard they’d taken Gaul and Brittany. But they’re here now - for us.”

“For our town?” Ma asked.

“For our lands, our men.”

Cerdic reached for his pitchfork. “We’ll go help.”

“Cover your hair,” Da said.

Dael reached for his hood. “Why?”

“They like the pale-haired ones, so Bayard says.”

At the White Cliffs

“You’re a blessed boy,” Ma said, pressing a kiss to Dael’s jaw as he staggered past with a bundle of sticks for the evening fire.

“Am I not blessed?” Cerdic asked. He grinned good-naturedly.

“You are,” Ma said. “I’m just grateful Dael’s been saving us from starvation.”

Dael blushed. “Not just me - Cerdic, too. I can help, but it takes a skilled farmer to make it really grow.”

“Well, I’m blessed to call both of you my sons,” Ma said.

Da flung the door open.

“Don’t be such a boor,” Ma said.

Da said, “They’re at the white cliffs.”

Hedge Wizard

“‘S odd, what you do,” Cerdic said, leaning on his hoe.

Dael knelt beside a stubborn sapling, hands cupped around it. “If I’ve a gift, I should use it well. So I use it to feed us.”

“Don’t use it too well, else the other families’ll snatch you to feed them.” Cerdic smiled gently; he had the same easy, comforting smile as Da.

Dael grinned. “No one’ll take me from our family.” He sent one last little nudge of energy into the sapling and then rose up. “That should do it.”

“Hedge wizard,” Cerdic said, and Dael chased him home.

Time to Grow

“Dael,” Ma said. “Get out of bed and help Cerdic with the goats already.”

Dael opened his eyes, blinked up at the ceiling of the hut. Daub and wattle, same as every morning, infused with the scent of Ma’s stew over the fire and Da’s tobacco smoke. Da prodded Dael in the ribs with his toe.

“Move, son,” he said. He was smiling, so Dael knew he wasn’t too late.

It wasn’t difficult to haul himself off his pallet, scrub his face with water before heading for the door. It was time to make some crops grow, weather be damned.

Interlude 9

The wind through the trees was a springtime song, a lullaby from another world, and the pale, colorless man standing on the edge of the fields could feel life rising anew at the hands of a boy.

The man reached up, blinked briefly-blue eyes, and he smiled. The boy was kneeling, hands cupped around a tender shoot, coaxing it to life. Blue-gold energy poured from the boy’s fingertips, bringing the shoot higher and higher, pushing it toward growth.

Then the boy’s father shouted, and the boy scrambled to obey, and the man knew another healing time had come.

A Girl, Once

Flavia said, “I’ve seen a boy, a warrior.”

Angelus huffed. “It’s always a boy. Why will it never be a girl?”

Flavia cast him a sidelong glance, reached for her purse. “It was a girl, once. You just weren’t there.” Then she peered out the window to where the sun was climbing high in the sky. “Now, don’t you have somewhere to be? Like, say, the parade ground with the rest of the Praetorian guard?”

Angelus scanned the sky and let out an impressive string of multilingual curses. He grabbed his spear, sword, and shield and bolted for the door.

Failure for Failure

“I suppose we’re even, one for one,” Angelus said.

Flavia concentrated on gathering the hem of her stalla just so, arranging it so it sat neatly over her tunica. She tucked her bulla inside the front neckline of the stalla and reached up to check her hair. She was ignoring him, but he didn’t care.

“A failure for a failure. I failed to bring the shape-changer, and you failed to bring the fire-wielder. Luckily for the both of us, we have another chance,” Angelus continued blithely. “At least, that’s what Old Master tells me. What have you seen?”

Interlude 8

Three wounds had healed, and a fourth was starting along. That they healed one at a time was aggravating, but he had the world enough and time. That last flash of fire had sealed this chapter, and when he turned his gaze toward the southwest, his eyes flashed sky-blue.

Whenever he looked at her, his hollow chest ached, his eyes flashed green, but he remained pale and lifeless, bleeding from deep wounds as he was. He turned from the shore and began to walk. He would walk and walk again, and he would feel the rain on his face.

After All

Brenna could make out something faintly humanoid in the mass of flame that rose toward the heavens. Ciaran had been a strong-hearted, stubborn, humorous lad. Whatever he was now was something else entirely.

Maybe gods and men weren’t meant to mingle after all.

The edges of the pond were still steaming, and the earth that had once housed the life-stream for an entire society was dry as an aged husk.

Dolan’s eyes rolled back into his head, and he collapsed.

Brenna took the chance to escape and slipped into the shadows.

Old Master wouldn’t be pleased at this.

No Words

The look on Dolan’s face upon seeing his village’s life source evaporate away wasn’t quite as good as the look on his face upon seeing Brenna claw her way out of her winding sheet and dust herself off.

Most everyone was screaming and fleeing. Some had reached the trees. Others had flung themselves in the shadows of their houses and sobbed for help from their goddess.

“Shame,” Brenna said. “Their goddess sent help, and they tried to kill it.”

Dolan looked at her, and his eyes almost fell out of his head. His mouth worked, but he had no words.

Skin and Bones No More

The world was water, but the water boiling hot, and he was tumbling, roiling, bubbling to the surface, a surface that was filled with screams and fear. Then he was hissing, writhing toward the sky.

The water pushed, and he pushed back, burning hotter and hotter until he thought his very skin would fly off his bones –

And then he realized that he was skin and bones no more, but living flame, rising up from the ashes of the village pond, and all the water was fading into the air, nebulous as smoke, as clouds.

They would never drink again.

Fill the World

They were pinning him beneath the surface with something long, sharp.

A fishing spear.

Ciaran never liked those fishermen anyway.

He wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of throwing himself onto the spear. He had a better plan.

In Brenna’s training, she’d always warned Ciaran against going past a certain point, in losing himself in the world beyond as he sought out the flames, because the flames would consume him – and everything around him.

Everything around him was water.

So he let go.

It was heady and thrilling, stepping outside of his own body, swelling to fill the world.

Against His Heart

Ciaran thought they’d have at least some farce of a trial, or a moment when he could renounce his evil ways and be welcomed back with open arms. But they went straight to execution, forcing him to his knees beside the pond.

“You’ve killed one person here. Killing two here will make this water undrinkable for sure,” Ciaran said.

“Silence,” Eoghan snapped.

Two of the men bound Ciaran’s wrists behind his back, and then they shoved him into the water.

Ciaran’s first reaction was to fight, and fight he did, but then he felt it, crushing weight against his heart.

Show Me How

“If you think it’s right, then you’re sorely mistaken,” Ciaran said, “but you always told me to deal with the consequences of my decisions, so here’s your chance to show me how.” He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

Immediately he was surrounded and dragged into the center of the village square. The women looked disgusted and afraid; the men looked angry and determined. Only Dolan, standing on the edges of the crowd, looked ashamed.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Ciaran asked. By now Niamh and the others had escaped. And they’d forgotten about Brenna.

No Regrets

“You speak blasphemy,” a woman said, Brenna’s accuser.

“And you speak ignorance,” Ciaran said.

“Step away from the body,” Eoghan said.

Ciaran shook his head. “After what you did to her, she deserves one measure of peace, even if all I can give her is a proper burial.”

Eoghan said, “She will be burned. And you – you will be tried.”

“I will be tried, but not fairly, and you know better than to burn me,” Ciaran said. “But if you drown me, you’ll regret it.”

“No man regrets doing what’s right,” Eoghan said.

Ciaran looked at his father and sighed.

Mother and Me

“Seize him, before he uses evil magic to bring her back to life. Or worse,” Eoghan said.

“All my life you were afraid of letting me near fire and nothing more,” Ciaran said. “Now you think my power extends to raising the dead?” He met his father’s gaze evenly.

“I don’t know what you are,” Eoghan spat.

Ciaran raised his eyebrows. “Did you know what my mother was before you married her? D’you think she was a monster?”


Fury crossed Eoghan’s face. “How dare you speak of –”

“My mother was a goddess. Would you treat her as you’ve treated me?”

Monstrousness, Kindness

Ciaran straightened up slowly.

“Why do you always call me that?” He tilted his head to one side, curious.

The music faded, and the villagers huddled together. Several men brandished torches and swords, but of course, it was Eoghan who stood front and center, eyes full of fury.

“Because you’re an abomination.”

Ciaran smiled guilelessly. “You raised me.”

“And yet I never fully cured you of the monstrousness inside of you.”

“I think it’s monstrous, that you’d murder a woman who helped you. What’s kindness, then? Shunning a boy after he finds out you lied to him his entire life?”

It's Always "Monster"

Dolan cared enough to cover Brenna in a winding sheet before he started back toward the village to join the others. Ciaran waited in the shadows until the others were distract, and then he edged along the rows and houses until he reached Brenna’s side.

He peeled back the soft edges of the winding sheet and gazed at Brenna’s face. But for the blue tinge of her mouth, she looked peaceful, asleep. Ciaran knew her death had been anything but peaceful. He had to take her far away from here, give her a proper burial.

And then someone shouted, “Monster!”

Mourn Alone

Dolan tugged Brenna's body onto the shore of the pond amidst cheers from the rest of the village. Eoghan drove a spear through her chest to ensure her death, and Ciaran felt rage spark in his veins. Brenna had used her magic to save them, had likely betrayed a friend and maybe her entire people to do so, and -

And they were celebrating.

Eoghan announced the successful purging, and cheers broke the air. Music started, and Eoghan tugged a woman - Brenna's accuser - into his arms for a dance.

It seemed Dolan and Ciaran mourned Brenna's death alone.

Killed Her

Ciaran turned and tore back through the trees, unheeding of the boughs and branches that clawed at him, drawing blood as he passed. Brenna must have known the others already knew, and she’d sent him away so he wouldn’t have to see –

Wouldn’t have to see her kicking and writhing as they held her down in the water, have to see the froth of bubbles as she tried to breathe. His voice lodged in his throat when the bubbles started to fade, because it meant she’d stopped trying, she’d given up, or it was already over, and –

They’d killed her.

Already Dead

Odran must have had some of Brenna’s strange magic, or maybe he saw things no one else saw because his true eyes were gone, because Niamh and Deagan were already marshaling enemy boats. If the map in the dirt was any indication, the southwest was their destination.

“Where’s Brenna?” Niamh asked.

Deagan laughed softly. “She break your heart already, laddie?”

But Odran’s face went pale, and he said, “You must return! Why did you leave her?”

“She told me to come tell you –”

“We know our orders, boy,” Odran snapped. “You walked away from her - and she’s probably already dead.”

Take Her With Him

Ciaran remembered judgments from before. Brenna would stand in the center of the village. Two people would speak against her, two could speak for her, and then three elders would decide her fate. She would spend the night tied to the post at the edge of the square while the village celebrated. Dolan was standing alone, but he was an elder, and the others respected him. Brenna would live one night before trial.

Ciaran would relay her orders to Niamh and Deagan, and then he would return. He had to rescue Brenna and take her south and west with him.

Celebrate, Judge

As soon as Ciaran hit forest cover, he caught himself against a tree and spun around, watched as the villagers surrounded Brenna. Eoghan tackled her to the ground, and then she was swallowed in a mass of human confusion. It was Dolan who waded in and rescued her, but by then she’d been beaten and bound.

The woman who’d started all the trouble yelled, “Drown her!”

Some others, including Eoghan, picked up the chant, but Dolan managed to speak over them.

“We must wait,” he said. “First we must celebrate our victory over the enemy. Then we will judge her.”

An Order

“Ciaran,” Brenna said, “find Niamh and Deagan and tell them to repair captured enemy ships and move. There’s a land to the south and west where their kind will be safe, where they can dance in the standing circles and sing to the sun.”

“The southwest? What are you saying?” Ciaran tugged on her elbow. “Brenna, you have to go–”

“That’s an order,” Brenna said firmly.

“But they’ll kill you.”

Brenna shoved him, hard, and he’d forgotten that she was so much stronger than she looked. He stumbled, and when he caught his balance he was running for the trees.

But She Stayed

“No.” Ciaran shook his head. “I won’t let them do this. I won’t let my own father kill a woman who fought to save his life.”

“I’m not your father,” Eoghan said, “because I would never give rise to a monster who burns people alive.”

“Ciaran,” Brenna said softly, “they can’t hurt me. Not really. Haven’t you heard? Drowning is like falling asleep.”

“How can you say that?” Ciaran’s heart was pounding in his chest. The villagers were closing in, their eyes were full of cold fury.

“Brenna, run,” Ciaran said, and he tried to push her, but she stayed.

Me, Ciaran

“The only way to purge her kind of evil is by fire,” the woman said, and her voice was eerily calm.

“Fire won’t work,” Eoghan said. “The boy would save her. There must be another way.”

Ciaran spluttered. “You can’t talk about her like she’s not here. And you can’t kill her - she’s done nothing wrong.”

“Be careful, boy,” Eoghan said, and Ciaran flinched at the sheer hatred in his voice. “One would think she has enslaved you with her evil power. Perhaps you are in need of purging as well.”

“If you kill me,” Brenna said, “let Ciaran live.”

Satisfactory to All

Alarm shot down Ciaran’s spine. He stepped in front of Brenna. “No - she saved you, she most of all! She fought for you even though none of you have done anything for her.”

She put a hand on his arm. “Don’t worry,” she said softly. “They can’t do anything permanent to me.”

Eoghan stepped forward. “We should take her, bind her magic permanently.”

Dolan glanced between Ciaran and Eoghan, eased forward warily. “If she will allow us to bind her magic, then she can go free. That would be satisfactory to all, yes?”

Ciaran nodded, but one woman said,

“No.”

Rid of Her

“We’re safe from them,” Eoghan said, and he narrowed his eyes. “But are we safe from you?”

Ciaran blinked. “Are you mad? We bled for you. Some of us died for you. Why would we hurt you?”

“She’s not one of them,” a woman said, pointing at Brenna.

A murmur ran through the crowd of villagers.

“She’s not one of us either,” Eoghan said. His voice rose. “She is the most powerful of all - she controlled all four of those gates.” He turned to face the villagers. “If we want to be safe forever, we must be rid of her!”

Safe Now

“We must bury what we can,” Brenna said quietly. She called out to Niamh and Deagan, “Send out the medics and round up the wounded. The survivors will flee, tell their commander not to come here again. If he’s a fool, he’ll make another sally, so we must take our chance to recover.”

Deagan and Niamh saluted, wearing wicked grins, and turned about, headed into the trees.

Ciaran watched them go, and as they walked away his gaze fell on Eoghan and Dolan. Both of them looked utterly terrified.

“We saved you,” Ciaran said. “You’re safe now. Don’t be afraid.”

Ashes to Ashes

Niamh and Deagan surged toward Ciaran with twin exultant cries, threw their arms around him and hugged him wildly. Sheer joy welled in his chest.

“We did it,” Niamh said, and she pressed a sloppy kiss to his brow. “We drove them back. We’re free of their plague. Forever!”

Deagan thumped him hard on the back, cheering loudly.

And then Brenna said, “Ciaran, you should put them out.”

Ciaran twisted out from Niamh and Deagan’s grip, and joy turned to shame. He hurried toward the edge of the flames, doused them with a thought.

All that was left was ashes.

Right and Wrong

Ciaran scanned their faces, waiting for fear or anger, for someone to try to. One man raised his sword.

Ciaran let flame blossom on his palm.

The man let his sword fall, and then he turned. Fled.

The rest of the men followed him, some running, some stumbling, and behind Ciaran, the rest of the blue-painted began to cheer.

Relief trickled down Ciaran’s spine, and as the last of the enemies disappeared, he knew he had done something right.

And then the smell of burning flesh struck him again, and he knew he’d also done something very, very wrong.

Closed Against Our Enemies

Brenna, Niamh, and Deagan stood forward. Some of the enemies fell back.

But then Brenna reached out, tugged Ciaran forward.

“Address your enemies,” she hissed. “You’ve defeated them.”

Ciaran blinked. “What?”

“Go on,” Brenna said. “Your victory. You’ve earned it.”

Ciaran glanced at the cowering villagers and hesitated, but then he nodded, stepped up.

“People of Thor.”

The men flinched.

“The four gates of the elements have closed against our enemies, and any who remain after the goddesses have spoken will be swallowed by the fire of Brighid,” Ciaran said, and he could feel his gift flutter in his fingertips.

Shown True

Even Niamh and Deagan flinched and closed their eyes, turned away as the screams began to subside, as the stench of cooking flesh grew worse. Ciaran forced himself to watch, because it was the result of his gift. Maybe this was what his father had been afraid he’d become, but he hadn’t done it cruelly - he’d done it to save his land.


Judging by the looks on the faces of the enemy soldiers who’d surrounded the village, his gift had shown true. Their ranks were ragged, and some of them had already laid down their weapons to watch their comrades burn.

The Fourth Gate

“They’re not dying.” A woman moaned softly, cowering from the sight.

Ciaran took a deep breath and stretched his hands out again, ready to pour more fire onto the enemy soldiers. Brenna stayed him.

“The fourth gate,” she said. She knelt, drew in the dirt with her fingertips. Ciaran was horrified when she dropped her head to her wrist, jerked sharply, and blood began dripping down her hand. When she lifted her head to cast, Ciaran saw blood ringing her mouth, but then she was calling forth gods Ciaran had never imagined, and wind began to feed the flames higher.

The Third Gate

Brenna called out, “Ciaran, the third gate!”

And Ciaran knew what he had to do.

The enemy were trapped, panicking, and they had no way to escape. The elements were rising up against them, and they knew that the goddesses - and this land - had condemned them.

So Ciaran raised his hands and called his power, felt it sing in his blood the way his mother sang lullabies in his dreams, and he let fire spark at his fingertips.

He heard his father scream his name, heard Brenna call him again, and he let the flames fly loose.

His enemies screamed.

The Second Gate

“The Second Gate,” Brenna commanded, and there was another snap of energy, an explosion of magic.

Some of the soldiers were trying to climb out of the mud pit, but struggling made them sink faster.

Other Gifted knelt, pressed their hands to the ground, and Ciaran saw the ground harden, saw the soldiers’ struggles become more frantic. They were trapped, and they were screaming louder.

Ciaran’s grip on his sword slackened, awed at the sheer power of the other Gifted. The rest of the villagers cowered in terror, but soon they would be safe, and it would be all right.

The First Gate

Ciaran broke the line first and burst into the village, hollered for Brenna. Arrows zipped overhead, and Ciaran heard enemies behind him cry out, fall. Ciaran skittered toward Deagan’s ranks and spun, swung his sword up. His comrades spilled after him - fewer than Ciaran had started the night alongside - and the enemy soldiers followed.

As soon as they crossed the threshold into the center of the village, Ciaran felt something in the air snap, and magic sang in the air.

Water gushed up from the ground, and Ciaran watched in part amusement, part horror as the soldiers began to sink.

Catch His Breath

Arrows zipping through the air brought the foe running, swords singing. Ciaran hollered and then turned tail, dashed through the trees. The others scattered behind him.

They knew their way through the trees far better than the foes, and it was easy to lure them back toward the village. Ciaran ducked around a tree and plastered himself against the trunk, took a moment to catch his breath.

He waited till two soldiers flew past him and he lunged out, stabbed them both from behind. Their cries as they fell alerted their comrades, and he turned, headed for the first gate.

Skill and Cunning

Ciaran had to lead the troops through the woods to the northeastern shore. It was slow, cautious going - they broke into small groups to avoid the enemy patrols. When they reached the tree line, they fanned out to study the enemy.


Ciaran’s breath caught in his chest when he saw the mass of boats spread along the shore, the swarm of enemy soldiers with their armor and weapons glittering in the moonlight.

“How are we supposed to survive this?” one of the archers breathed.

“With skill and cunning - just as we were taught,” Ciaran said. “Now hurry - summon the foes.”

Clear the Way

“Come back safely,” she said, and she pulled him into a kiss.

Ciaran reached up with his free hand, twined his fingers into her hair, and kissed her back.

“I will,” he whispered against her mouth when he pulled back.

“Bring the fire,” Brenna whispered, and then she stepped away, raised her sword. “Fág an bealach!”

The rest of the ranks threw their heads back and roared. Ciaran roared with them. When the shouting died down, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eoghan, Dolan, and the rest of the villagers cowering in the doorways of their houses.

Mostly

Brenna turned and began barking orders to Niamh’s archers, who submitted. Deagan rounded up the surviving members of his ranks and ordered weapons issued, and then Brenna summoned all the ranks in for final instructions. Ciaran listened intently, grip white-knuckled on the hilt of his sword. He didn’t understand half of what Brenna wanted, but he knew what he had to do.

Mostly, he had to survive.

He had to lure the enemy back to the village and everyone else would spring the trap.

Brenna caught his arm before he set off with the others and tugged him close.

Four Gates

“This is madness, and it’s evil,” Eoghan spat, but Dolan put a hand on his arm.

“We need them,” he said.

Ciaran tore his gaze away from his father and tried to focus on Brenna’s orders.

“Fine,” Eoghan said, voice low and fierce. “But when it’s done, we will deal with them.”

“I want four gates,” Brenna said. “One for each watchtower.”


Ciaran didn’t understand, but the other Gifted were nodding and shifting about, picking places.

“We’ll need lures,” Brenna continued. “Fighters to draw the enemy here.” She turned to Ciaran. “I’ll need you - your power - on the rear guard.”

Everything We Have

The forest was alive with enemies. They had no choice but to fall back to the village. Women and children screamed when blue-painted strangers tumbled along the dirt paths between houses, but Niamh and Deagan formed a fierce perimeter.

Eoghan sputtered, furious, but Dolan calmed him.

Brenna gathered the talented soldiers in the center of the village.

“We have one chance to drive them off. They outnumber us, and they have more weapons and armor than we could hope to withstand. We have to hit them with everything we have.” Brenna looked at each of them. “Are you ready?”

Rally

He pushed the fire out, into their individual bodies, and they dropped where they stood, writhing and screaming, and then Brenna was calling out to her comrades. Niamh and Deagan answered. Odran was wounded, hit in the initial press of soldiers coming from the northeast shore.

The attack on the northwest shore was a decoy, a test.

Almost all of the farmers were dead, save Eoghan and Dolan, though they had rallied support.

Brenna put out the burning soldiers with a splash of blood, a scrawled symbol and a muttered word, and then she issued the command - rally the troops.

Burning Flesh and Victory

“Distract them,” Brenna said.

The man slashed at her. She dodged, slashed back, nicked him enough to make him retreat.

“How?” Ciaran asked.

“You have the control. The fire doesn’t have to be big - it just has to scare them. Just - don’t burn the whole forest down.” Brenna’s tone was light, but her words were obviously strained.

Ciaran wished he was still sleeping. But she was right - he had the control. So he started small.

No soldier could hold burning weapons, after all.

The men screamed and dropped their swords, and Ciaran smelled burning flesh - and a chance at victory.

In The Trees

Ciaran tasted blood. Then he opened his eyes. Brenna was on her feet, sword drawn, one man dead at her feet while another circled, sword and shield at the ready. Enemy soldiers had surrounded their little camp, and Ciaran could hear screams in the trees. He heard the zip of arrows and knew Niamh was live and kicking.

He pushed himself up to his knees, reached for his sword, but another man swung at him, and he dove out of the way, rolled to his feet.

He curled his fist, ready to cast fire - but they were in the trees.

Like a Torch Going Out

Ciaran might have been insulted at Brenna’s casual dismissal of his battle prowess, but before he could summon the energy to properly protest, she pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth and then nuzzled under his chin, sighed deeply and fell asleep.

Just like a torch going out - awake one moment, unconscious the next.

Ciaran wondered if that was a soldier’s skill, the ability to sleep anywhere any time, or if it was peculiar to Brenna.

He was comfortable, though, and warm, so he wrapped his arms around her, held her closer, and fell into easy, peaceful sleep.

Comfortable

“Get comfortable,” Brenna said, and she offered up the edge of her blanket so Ciaran could burrow in beside her and they could share blankets and furs.

He paused in the puzzle of sliding their limbs together so he could curl against her, let her tuck her head under his chin so he could feel her against his heartbeat.

“I’d have thought you’d want me to be anything but comfortable so I can wake quickly,” he said.

“I’m faster and stronger,” Brenna said easily. “You get comfortable. If trouble comes, I’ll be awake first. I know you’ll have my back.”

In the Grand Scheme of Things

Brenna laughed softly. “You don’t want to marry me. Whether or not you hate me makes no difference in the grand scheme of things, because you need to sleep.”

This time, Ciaran turned his head and kissed her. This kiss was slower, sweeter than all the kisses that had come before, but Ciaran felt fire sparking beneath his skin faster than ever before, and he turned, wound his arms around her waist.

Brenna pulled back first. “Sleep,” she said. “Who knows when you’ll get the chance again.”

“Is my bedroll next to yours?”

“If you mean within sword’s reach, yes.”

Hate You, Marry You

After the cooking fires had burned low and no one needed lamps or torches lit, Ciaran was finally allowed to stumble toward the trees to find a soft patch of grass to rest his head.

He paused at the tree line, scanning his surroundings for the safest spot possible, and then Brenna breathed in his ear, pressed warm against his back,

“Your bedroll is this way.”

Ciaran jumped, hand going for his sword, but he knew it was futile. Had she been an enemy, he’d already be dead.

“I can’t decide if I hate you or want to marry you.”

From You

Hours, days, weeks ago, Ciaran would have been gratified to see the hesitation that crossed his father’s face, but knowing now that Eoghan was persisting with his hatred with all this energy even though he wasn’t sure Ciaran was a monster was infuriating.

“You were born half monster, but I kept the monster at bay,” Eoghan said.

Ciaran’s hands curled into fists to smother fireballs before they could blossom. “If I’m half monster, then the monstrous half I inherited was from you!”

And then Deagan said, gently and low, “Ciaran, we need fire if we’re going to eat. Come on.”

I Was Yours

“Dolan,” Ciaran began, and a hand came down on his shoulder.

Ciaran spun, drawing his sword in one motion, and found himself face-to-face with Eoghan.

“Da,” he said. Eoghan’s face darkened.

“Don’t speak to them. Stay with your own kind,” Eoghan said and shoved him.

Ciaran caught himself, sheathed his sword. “I was going to offer help –”

“Stay away!”

Ciaran felt anger twist in his chest, sensed fire tingling in his fingertips, and he had to force it back. “If I’m not one of your kind, why did you lie all those years and say I was yours?”

Wary But Grateful, Inscrutable

“What now?” Ciaran followed her.

“Light the cooking fire and then sleep when you can. Who knows when you’ll get the chance to sleep next.” Brenna cast an inscrutable look over her shoulder, and then she headed into the trees.

Someone hollered Ciaran’s name again, and he hurried to answer it, because he was hungry, and cooking fires meant food.

He spotted Dolan and some of the farmers hunkered down on the edge of the camp, their wounds bandaged. They looked wary but grateful when a child offered them water. Ciaran started toward them, but they all looked at him.

Selling and Asking

Whatever the man said in farewell made Brenna sigh heavily, but she nodded. The man turned, and his gaze met Ciaran’s. When he spoke, it was heavily accented, but Ciaran knew the words.

“It will get worse before it gets better, but history must run its course.”

Ciaran wasn’t sure what that meant, but then Brenna splashed the surface of the water, and the man’s face disappeared.

“Selling him our secrets?” Ciaran’s voice was low, vicious.

“Asking him to sell his. He has none, other than what he told you.” Brenna handed the bowl to a medic and rose up.

Grim, Dangerous

She was speaking in a strange, fluttering language unlike one Ciaran had ever - no, he knew that language; he usually heard it being shouted across battle lines. She spoke the language of the enemy. Ciaran prowled closer to the cover of the trees. Before he was within arm’s reach, Brenna reacted, twisted and drew her sword, ready to finish him. Then she saw him, and her expression settled into something grim, dangerous. She sheathed her sword, turned back to the bowl and resumed speaking.

The man whose face shimmered on the surface of the water looked equally grim and dangerous.

Brenna Kneeling

Odran dispatched a couple of medics to tend to the farmers. Ciaran would have lingered, but then he was summoned to help set up the campfires with his magic. Some of the other Gifted returned to the beach to fetch the dead and prepare them for burial. They would bury the bodies of the enemies as a courtesy, but without the rites of the goddesses.

Ciaran lit some lamps for the children scampering about tending their parents, and he heard someone calling his name to help with a cooking fire, and then he saw Brenna kneeling over her silver bowl.

Whose Side

Ciaran could only stare at Brenna, perplexed and hurt, as she turned away to assist another.

Dolan glanced at Eoghan, then shouldered past him. “If he doesn’t want help, then he’s alone. Will you help us?”

Ciaran spread his hands. “I can’t. But I can ask the others.”

Dolan nodded, and Ciaran turned away to find Odran, see who could heal. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw the rest of the farmers were watching him warily, but none had turned away - only Eoghan.

Ciaran watched Brenna tend to a child and wondered whose side she was really on.

But the War is Not

“Eoghan,” Dolan said, “we need the help. Some of the men won’t make it back to their families without –”

“Not from them,” Eoghan said. “Any help from them will turn to poison.”

Ciaran flinched at his father’s words. “I’m sure the healers will –”

“No,” Brenna said, coming to stand beside Ciaran. “We won’t help you if you don’t want it.”

“But Brenna,” Ciaran began.

She shook her head. “Their disbelief and anger will make healing difficult. It’s not worth the trouble when our own people are more effective fighters.”

“The battle is done,” Ciaran said.

“But the war is not.”

Ask Them For Nothing

Most of them were tired, bleeding, a few burnt in places. They huddled close, wary of the people with blue dancing on their skin. Ciaran knew he was an oddity among Deagan’s troops, for his skin remained as clear as the day he’d joined them.

“They’re not my healers,” he said. “They’ll do what they will. If you want their help, ask them.”

Dolan nodded and scanned the crowd.

“You’ll want to ask Deagan or Odran,” Ciaran said, and then his father pushed to the front of the group.

“Are you mad? We’ll ask them for nothing. They’re blue-skinned.”

Here to Find You

“Is that why you’re here?” Ciaran asked. “To save us from his mistake?”

“I came here to find you,” Brenna said. Abruptly, she turned away from the beach and headed back toward the medic camps. She knelt beside Niamh and drew the knife from her belt, sliced open her palm.

“It’s bizarre whenever you do that,” Niamh said, but then Brenna pressed a hand to her shoulder and Niamh’s eyes fluttered closed. “I take it back. It’s fantastic when you do that.”

Dolan’s voice broke Ciaran’s musing.

“Will your healers lend us aid?”

Ciaran turned, saw the injured village men.

Theirs and Mine

“No,” Brenna said, and she sighed, tired. “My magic is not like theirs. Their magic...is like mine.”

“You taught them your magic?” Betrayal curled in Ciaran’s chest.

“No. Not them.” Brenna swept a hand over her face, smeared more blood accidentally. “But...yes, our magic came from the same...source.”

“Your friend in the silver bowl. The one who tells you when they’re coming.”

“He doesn’t tell me when they’re coming - I know.”

“Is he their commander? Did he train them?” Like you trained me. Ciaran couldn’t say it.

“He lost control of them,” Brenna said, and her eyes darkened.

That Simple

“Power,” Ciaran echoed. That’s what he was - a half-human monster filled with killing firepower. He let his sword slip from his grasp, and he turned away from the shore littered with bodies, from the men huddled around their boats seeing to their dead.

“It can’t have been that simple,” Brenna said. She stepped up beside him and gazed out at the flames. “One battle wouldn’t deter them.”

“How would you know that?” Ciaran asked. “Were you one of them?”


“No. I’m all wrong - wrong color, size. Wrong language. Name.”

“But their magic - I saw it. It’s just like yours.”

The Most Power

“Is it true?” Niamh asked. She was injured, lying on a pallet while someone pressed a poultice to her shoulder, and she tried to sit up, but the medic hissed and shoved her back down.

Odran turned his sightless eyes toward the flames; in their golden glow, his irises were almost black.

“They are fading. Their magic wasn’t strong enough, because they only had their blood signs and not the power of the gods,” he said. “They will not return until they have more power.”

“For now, we have the most power,” Deagan said. He turned and grinned at Ciaran.

Retreating

At Odran’s order, Ciaran turned and spread a final line of fire, and then everyone helped haul the injured people up the slopes to the safety of the medics who’d remained behind.

Ciaran remained on the edge of the grass, watching the fires burn. He saw some of the enemy standing behind the wall of fire, trying to put it out, small spurts of water hitting the flames, but it wasn’t enough, not when Ciaran made the flames leap higher.

And then cheers broke out from the far side of the medic camp.

“They’re retreating!”

Ciaran knew his father’s voice.

Burned Alive

“There will always be a later,” Brenna said, “if we don’t give up fighting. Come on.”

Then she turned and brought her sword up, caught a man across the chest in a blow that tore him apart. Ciaran gripped his sword and followed her, readied himself for the rest of the fight.

What followed was - a dance. Memorization. Repetition. Motions and reactions learned and drilled a hundred times.

Reality was nothing like practice, because practice didn’t have blood and screams, desperation and magic, hatred and terror.

When Deagan finally called a retreat, most of the enemy was dead - burned alive.

Later

“Get away from me!” Eoghan shouted, and stumbled back, swinging his sword wildly.

In the background, Deagan was shouting orders. People crowded and parted like waves crashing onto shore; Ciaran struggled to reach his father.

Then someone shouted his name.

“Not now!” Brenna appeared at his side. She had a shallow gash along her cheekbone, blood in her hair.


Ciaran continued after his father, but Brenna caught his wrist, brought him up short. She was too strong for a real girl –

She pressed his bloody sword into his hand.

“Fight now,” she said. “Reunite later.”

“Will there be a later?”

Fathers and Monsters

Ciaran lunged, caught a man in the belly, twisted his wrist the way Brenna taught him. The man went down with a gurgle, and then Ciaran was at his father’s side.

A third man lunged, and Ciaran stepped in, brought up his shield. His sword flew from his hand, and he reacted the only way he knew how - by throwing fire. Then he spun to face Eoghan.

“Da!”

Eoghan turned to him, face twisted in horror.

“Run - while you still can,” Ciaran said.

“Monster,” Eoghan snarled.

Ciaran smelled burning flesh, but that didn’t matter.


“Da, please - it’s not too late.”

Fighting and Losing

Deagan shouted for his troops to fall back into line, and Ciaran scrambled to obey. The battle was shaking out; both sides were struggling into proper formations, and Ciaran was no longer terrified that he would strike friend instead of foe.

More cries filled the air, and at first Ciaran thought it was Niamh spurring her archers into close combat, but then he recognized the men’s voices – Dolan and the other farmers and Eoghan.

“Father!”


Ciaran cut a man down, brought his shield up to guard as he headed toward the cluster of farmers. His father was fighting - and losing.


Enemy Magic

Brenna shouted for him to put it out, and Ciaran reached out with his magic the way he’d done it thousands of times before, lighting candles and lamps in the camp. The flames curled up and died.

And then the boats hit the shore.

The first few seconds of a battle were pure luck. Training had nothing to do with success in the press of bodies, the clash of swords, because a man was as likely to hit a comrade as an enemy.

Ciaran had to survive, because he had to ask Brenna if she knew about the enemy magic.

Ciaran's Fire

Niamh’s archers picked off the first wave of warriors before their boats reached the shore. Ciaran watched the survivors tumble the bodies overboard and the boats kept on coming. One woman sheathed her sword, raised her hands, summoned lightning. One boat was lost, but more were coming.


These men remembered the losses from before, and they wanted victory.

Ciaran wasn’t going to let them have it.

And then fire exploded along the shoreline.

Screams rent the air as soldiers flung themselves to safety, but Ciaran knew the stench of burning flesh. Eoghan hollered his name, but it wasn’t Ciaran’s fire.

The Ones Who Could

Ciaran clutched his sword tightly and watched the boats come rolling in on the tide, bounce on the waves, prows gleaming with fangs and skulls, bristling with the weapons of the hordes waiting to spill onto the shore and draw red blood from the green earth.

And then Odran said, “Gifted warriors, to me!”

Several men and women detached themselves from the ranks and rallied around the old blind man, and Ciaran recognized them, the ones who could move things with a glance, stir the weather and breathe fire into thin air. He knew Odran was calling him as well.

Battle, Defend

Eoghan, Dolan, and the other men from Ciaran’s village formed a ragged band along the shoreline, armed with farming implements and torches, flimsy shields. Some of them called out greetings, but when Deagan’s troops came closer, their camaraderie faded.

“This isn’t your battle,” Eoghan said, didn’t look at Ciaran.

“This land is our home,” Deagan said, “and we will defend it.”

“We don’t need your help.” Eoghan hefted his peat cutter.

“We’re not here to help you,” Deagan said. “Fan out!”

Ciaran lifted his voice in the answering cry of, “Yes sir!” and marched to join his brothers-in-arms.

Down on the Shore

One moment Deagan was berating his troops as they bungled their morning drill, the next a scout came careening into camp shouting about boats on the horizon.

What was a drill became battle. Ciaran’s mind spun as he tried to remember all he had been taught, procedures and formations and lines that would give way to stabs and parries, thrusts and blocks, ringing metal and then death.

Niamh led her archers down to the shore, and Deagan divided his troops, sending half with Brenna. Ciaran wasn’t one of them, but that didn’t matter.

Down on the shore, he saw Eoghan.

The Day After

Ciaran watched Brenna whenever he could. He noticed she rarely used her magic. He also noticed that no one else shed their blood to use their magic. The others kept their distance from Brenna, but Deagan’s troops respected her, and Ciaran would readily admit she was better with a sword than any man save perhaps Deagan himself, and even then sometimes Ciaran thought she let Deagan win.

Ciaran did his best not to think about his father, tried to concentrate on his training instead.

He needed it sooner than he thought. The day after the winter solstice, the dragonboats returned.

See Everything

Brenna arched an eyebrow. “What about it? You want it in marriage? I know war makes desperate men, but –”

Ciaran caught her wrist and tugged her close. “You have no scar.”

“You state the obvious.”

“I’ve seen you cut your hand open before. To use your magic.” Ciaran stared at the unblemished palm of her hand and felt something hitch in his chest.

“I can use my magic to heal, remember?” Brenna looked amused.

“I’ve never seen you use it.” Ciaran searched her face, remembered how she once told him that she wasn’t really a person.

“You can’t see everything.”

Your Hand

“I trained you to last through a battle,” Brenna said. “What you’re learning now will get you through a war.”

“The Hammer of Thor will bring war to the Green Lands? But it’s winter.”

“Precisely when they’ll come. They’re done being farmers for the year. The cold is setting in, and they need a way to feed their families,” Brenna said.

“By killing and starving ours.” Ciaran stared into the flames.

“It’s what they’re good at.”

“And you’re teaching me to be better.”

“I’m teaching you to be you.” Brenna went to stand up, but Ciaran stopped her.

“Your hand.”

Repeating Myself

Brenna sat beside him. "What are you thinking of?"

"Nothing."

"Doesn't look like nothing." Brenna poked him.

"Father. My life before." Ciaran sighed, too tired to be annoyed.

Brenna gazed into the flames; they were the same color as her eyes. "Do not forget him, but set him aside if you want to survive what comes."

"It's winter. The Hammer of Thor is trapped in the cold of the North. You said so yourself."

"I wasn't speaking of them. You have work to do."

This time Ciaran could summon some annoyance. "You already trained me. Why am I repeating myself?"

Harvest Fall

Ciaran wasn't the only one in the camp with a gift. He saw others raise a tent eith a gesture, murmur an enchantment over a healing poultice or peer at the guts of a chicken to read the future. Gifts were used more openly to preserve the spoils of hunting and gathering for the coming winter.

Ciaran sat beside the central fire on a rare break from Deagan's constant barrage of orders and tried not to remember the harvest festivals of his childhood, clinging to his father's hand and begging for pumpkin seeds or a toy.

Training With the Others

Training with the others meant moving from dawn till dusk with swords, staffs, spears, and knives, pausing to snatch food from the pot at the central fire. Training meant working himself so exhausted he forgot his father's name.

Ciaran saw little of Brenna during the day. At night she made him light all the flames in camp, every torch and fire, pushing his magic in constant bursts until he was sure that one wrong blink would set his tent on fire.

After supper and a drill in the dark, Ciaran could try to sleep.

He always dreamed the world was burning.

In a Thought

The people in the camp wore little more than rags; Ciaran could see blue patterns on their skin. They greeted Odran with respect, Niamh and Deagan with fondness, Brenna with wariness. Ciaran they ignored until Niamh dragged him toward the central fire.

"He's a son of Brighid," she said. "Brenna found him for us. He'll help save our land."

An archer looked Ciaran over. "Can you use that sword?"

"Brenna taught me."

"Can you kill a man?"

Ciaran shuddered. "In a thought."

The archer looked skeptical.

Ciaran extended a hand to demonstrate. Brenna stopped hm.

"He'll train with the others."

Monster, Despondent

Ciaran felt disgust churn in his gut once more. Yes, he’d defended his shores, but he’d burnt to death dozens, scores - maybe hundreds - of men. He was a killer. Warriors were hailed for their victories in battles, yes, but he was no warrior.

He was a monster.

As if Deagan had sensed Ciaran’s despondence, he began chattering about his life before he joined Odran and Brenna’s band, back when he was a silversmith who made lovely jewelry. Ciaran was grateful for the distraction and kept up the conversation until they emerged on a wide field crowded with fires and tents.

Dizzying Puzzle

Ciaran blinked at her; his heart fluttered oddly in his chest. “Do you want to marry me?”

“Why? Do you want to marry me?” Brenna pressed another kiss to his mouth and then pulled ahead to speak to Niamh.

Ciaran spluttered and reached out to try to catch her shoulder, but Deagan placed a hand on his arm.

“I wouldn’t bother puzzling her out,” Deagan said. “She’ll just make you dizzy.”

She already made him dizzy. Ciaran nodded. “So...do you believe I have some grand destiny?”

“I know you do, lad,” Deagan said easily. “I saw what you did.”

All The Time

Brenna scooped up her silver bowl, and Ciaran had the sudden notion that he knew exactly how she could predict the coming attacks. As the group trekked through the woods, Ciaran hung back beside Brenna.

“It’s the man in the water, isn’t it? He tells you what’s coming,” he said quietly.

She smiled up at him. “You’re smarter than you look.”

“Thanks,” Ciaran said. “I think.”

Brenna pressed a firm kiss to his mouth. “It was a compliment.”

“You can’t distract me by kissing me all the time,” Ciaran said, annoyed.

“I’m not trying to distract you all the time.”

To Sense Impending Doom

Ciaran’s stomach turned again. “Then what will they...?”


“Most likely drowning,” Brenna said. She flashed him a fierce grin. “But only if they catch you. Now come on - we have work to do if we want to be ready for the next attack.”

“Do you know when it will be?” Ciaran asked.

“Not exactly, but we’ll have some advance warning,” Brenna said.

Odran said, “Looking into the future like that is dangerous, girl.”

“Brenna likes danger,” Niamh said dryly, but she looked worried at the prospect as well.

“There is more than one way to sense impending doom,” Brenna said.

Work With You

“Why?” Ciaran asked. “Where?”

“Now that the threat is mostly gone, Eoghan is rallying the other mundane fools to be rid of the evil druids who brought the enemy upon us. Dolan has at least delayed the madness because you helped your former neighbors survive, but we can’t stay here.” Brenna scooped up the other set of blankets. Odran, Niamh, and Deagan began gathering up the rest of her supplies.

Ciaran’s throat closed. His father hated him, wanted him dead. “What will they do if they catch us?”

“The traditional method is burning, but that won’t really work with you.”

Get Moving

“I leave you alone for one hour and already you’re breaking him?” Brenna stepped into the clearing. Her sword was dripping with blood and she had a gash across her cheekbone, but she seemed otherwise intact.

Ciaran dragged his hand across the back of his mouth. “Da was right. I did it - I killed my own mother. I can remember -”

“You spoke to her,” Brenna said. “You’re mother’s alive.”

“No. I know I -”

“Shuffling the mortal coil is painful. Usually more for the people left behind, but she’s fine now. Don’t feel guilty,” Brenna said. “We need to get moving.”

Accidentally in Case of Memory

Ciaran sat up and pushed Brenna’s blankets aside. “The invaders are gone?”

“For now,” Niamh said. “You frightened them pretty well. I’m not going to lie - it was very impressive. You didn’t need to cast or anything. The fire is in your blood.” She grinned, the expression gleeful and fierce, and Ciaran felt his stomach turn.

He could still remember the scent of burning flesh, could hear the screams. If he closed his eyes, he could remember - his father crying, and a woman screaming, and that same smell, and -

“Easy, lad,” Deagan said, patting Ciaran’s back as he retched violently.