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.

Grand Destiny

Ciaran came awake several hours later when Niamh, Deagan, and Odran came crashing into the grove. The sky was still dark, but the fire had been re-lit, and another bed roll had been laid out on the other side of the camp. Brenna was nowhere to be seen.

“She’s gone scouting,” Niamh said. “So...Brighid’s son. Are you ready for your grand destiny?”

“I don’t have a destiny,” Ciaran said, feeling mulish. “I’m just a peat-cutter’s son.”

“Your fire drove away the Hammer of Thor,” Odran said, “but they will be back, and they still want this land.”

Crashing Over Him

Brenna was gone before Ciaran could form a coherent response. Embarrassed, he crawled over to her bedroll and spread out the blankets, curled up with his hands cradled against his body, his sword an arm’s length away. He lay and watch the flames until they burned out, tried to stay awake, but the stress of the day crashed over him.

His father hated him - thought he’d killed his own mother. His mother was - a goddess made of fire, and she’d left him behind for some great destiny, and he had killed other men.

And Brenna had kissed him. A lot.

Keep Doing That

“You can’t just keep doing that!” Ciaran called after her. “Sooner or later you’re going to have to answer my questions!” But he was breathless and his head felt fuzzy; he suspected it was the burns on his hands.

Brenna paused and turned, slewed him a narrow-eyed look. Then she prowled toward him, her steps silent, body sleek, and Ciaran was hypnotized by the sway of her hips. She knelt over him and fisted a hand in his hair, tugged him up, and kissed him again. His heart roared in his ears, and then -

“How will you stop me?”

Not People

Ciaran put a hand on her arm. “You’re not so different from me. You might be a more experienced warrior, but all people need sleep.”

“Perhaps,” Brenna said tightly, “I am not ‘people’.”

Ciaran’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Brenna shook him off. “I need to go. Some of Niamh’s archers were injured and she’s not the best at doctoring.”

“Brenna,” Ciaran began. She leaned in and kissed him squarely on the mouth. He made a muffled sound of surprise, and she took advantage of his distraction to deepen the kiss. Then she pulled back, started for the trees.

We and You

“I already told you - they come from the north, and they are fierce warriors.” Brenna handed him his sword and stoked the fire. “You stay here - I have to make sure the others are all right.”

“They will be,” Ciaran said. “I only know what you told me about war, but even though those men looked mad - they will have to stop and regroup, take time to put out the fires and sort out their dead. We have until morning.”

“Then you also know we shouldn’t give them time to regroup.”

“We need to rest,” Ciaran said.

“Not we - you.”

For Now

“Why would you fight for them?” Ciaran asked.

“Them who?” Brenna bandaged his burnt hands with brusque efficiency.

“Dolan and my - and Eoghan and the rest.”

Brenna tied off the last of the bandage and set her jar of liniment aside. “I’m not fighting for them. I’m fighting for this land. For now, we have the same goals.”

“For now? What happens when that changes?”

“Things will go back to the way they were, I suspect.”

Ciaran studied her expression; she seemed almost - angry. He decided to change the subject. “What do you know about the men in the dragonboats?”

Know How

"Not by choice."

"Then why?" Why did I grow up afraid of myself, not knowing my father feared and hated me more than I ever could? Ciaran didn't dare say the words aloud even if Eoghan wasn't there to hear.

"You are still half mortal. And you have a destiny."

"What destiny?"

"You started it tonight."

At Brenna's pointed glance in the direction they'd come, Ciaran knew. His stomach lurched.

"She couldn't have meant me to be a murderer."

"She meant you to save her lands."

"Me? Save the land from those monsters in their dragonboats? How?"

"You know how."

Gone Home; Left Behind

Brenna's eyes blazed gold, like the flames dancing across the surface of the water, and then Ciaran realized she was Brenna and his hands hurt fiercely and then - then the face in the bowl was gone.

Ciaran wrenched himself backward, closed his agonizing hand over the hilt of his sword.

"What was that? Who was that? What did you do to me?"

Brenna emptied the bowl carefully, hissed when her fingertips lingered too long on the metal. "That was your mother, Brighid. In life she was Ceri."

"In life? Then she's dead."

"No. Gone home."

"She left us behind."

Name or Form

Ciaran leaned closer to the fiery surface; his hands gripped the edges of the bowl and blistered, but he felt no pain. If he closed his eyes and gave in, he would be free of his flesh cage. He could ride the wind and sky, level forests and boil lakes down to their beds, burst out of mountains and build new lands on the seas. He could turn gold into liquid and use it to paint the world. He could -

"Ciaran."

No, he was tine, an element beyond name or form. He was -

"Ciaran, come back to me."

Beyond Words

What followed was beyond words. One moment, Ciaran was gazing at a reflection of the trees. The next he was looking at...living fire. It flickered and danced, formed the face of a woman, and Ciaran knew. She was his mother. He knew her smile and her laughter, and then she said his name.

Ma, he whispered, reached for the bowl, but then he felt the heat, the flames skimming the surface and calling his name.

My son. It wasn’t her voice he heard - it was her that he felt. Join me. Be one with the magic.

With the flames.

Doing That

They made it to her bower quickly.

“Keep your sword handy,” Brenna said. “Now light a fire while I fill this bowl.”

Ciaran lit the kindling in the stone circle with little more than a thought. Beside him, Brenna had cut herself again, and water was streaming from her palm into the bowl.

“Should you keep doing that?” Ciaran asked. “You’ll do yourself a harm if you keep losing so much blood.” He reached for her wrist once the water stopped flowing. “Let me bandage --”

Brenna snatched her hand back. “No. Look into the water. You can see your mother.”

Through the Trees

As they ran through the trees, Ciaran couldn’t help but notice that Brenna really was beautiful. Whenever she smiled at him, her eyes glittered golden-bright, and her hair was as soft and dark as shadows, and --

Brenna tugged on his elbow and brought him around, hard. He crashed into her, and they both stumbled back.

“Ow,” Ciaran said. She was strong, and she’d tugged fiercely.

“You almost ran into a tree,” Brenna said.

Ciaran looked up and saw that he had, indeed, almost plowed headlong into a massive oak.

Brenna smirked a little bit as she let him go.

The Silver Bowl

Brenna rolled her eyes. “It’s not like that, you dirty-minded amadan. Ciaran, hurry. And bring that silver bowl.”

Odran turned his sightless eyes on her. “Are you sure that’s such a good idea?”

“He deserves to know,” Brenna said.

“He’ll survive the conversation, but I doubt you will.” Niamh flicked a leaf at her.

“I think you’ll find Brenna is made of sturdier stuff than we give her credit for,” Deagan said.

Niamh giggled. “She’s just so tiny. Like a fae--”

“Don’t go calling their attention down on us,” Odran said. “Go on, Brenna. Be gentle with the lad.”

Wholly Unholy

“Well,” Niamh said, “I’d have slapped him, personally, but whatever works.”

Ciaran’s eyes slipped closed, and he reached up automatically, tangled one hand in Brenna’s wild curls.

“I’d say he’s snapped out of it,” Deagan said.

“Or that she’s just snapped.” Niamh sounded too amused.

Ciaran moaned when Brenna pulled back. Her mouth was grave, but her eyes were bright.

“We don’t have that much time,” she said. “Come along. I have something you’ll want to see.”

“Under your clothes, aye?” Deagan grinned.

“Oy,” Odran said. “Not in front of the Holy Mother’s --”

“There’s nothing holy about it, old man.”

The Next

“We should split up,” Deagan said quietly. “Who knows what Eoghan might do.”

“What do you mean?” Ciaran asked. The hurt was starting to fade, and despite the fire he was feeling cold.

“He’s none too pleased that Brenna taught you your power,” Niamh said.

“He wouldn’t hurt her,” Ciaran said, but the words sounded distant, as if someone else were speaking them.

“I think he’s in shock,” Odran said.

“Aye.” Deagan nudged Brenna. “Snap him out of it.”

One moment, Brenna was peering curiously at Ciaran, as if he were an ill bird, the next, she was kissing him.

Yes and No

“Your mother is a goddess, yes,” Niamh said.

“Did I really kill her?”

"A goddess cannot die,” Deagan said.

Brenna shot him a look.

“Well, not that easily, and certainly not of her own element.” Deagan smiled with false brightness.

Ciaran felt, for the first time in years, his eyes begin to sting with tears. “But I’m the reason we grew up alone.”

“Yes,” Niamh said.

“But it’s not your fault,” Brenna said. “It was an accident. She’s not angry.”

“How would you know?”

“Now’s not the time,” Niamh said. “We need to regroup.”

“I’ll tell you later,” Brenna said.

Is It True?

Ciaran couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breathe; he felt as though his father had taken a sword and run him through with it. His knees started to buckle. He managed one syllable.

“Da --”

Eoghan turned away from him.

“We should rally with the men Padraig summoned,” Dolan said. He cast Ciaran an apologetic look.

“Aye,” Eoghan said. “This way.”

Ciaran started after him, but Odran put a hand on his arm.

“Lad, I wouldn’t.”

Ciaran watched his father vanish into the night shadows, uncaring of the heat of the flames behind him, of the cries of the enemy.

“Is it true?”

Commit Yourself

Ciaran’s heart crawled into his throat. “Da,” he croaked.

Eoghan hissed, “Don’t call me that.”

“Ceri was a goddess,” Brenna said calmly. “She did not die. She merely surrendered her mortal aspect.”

“I loved her, and that creature --” he pointed a shakily at Ciaran -- “is the reason she’s gone.”

“Whatever he is that makes him a creature he got from her,” Brenna said.

Odran spoke up. “Eoghan, you should be honored to have been the consort of a goddess --”

“Leave this place,” Eoghan said to Ciaran, “and never come back. Perhaps you should commit yourself to the flames you created.”

Speak Madness

Deagan spoke up. “Man, the boy just saved us all. They’ll be all night trying to quell those fires, and by then reinforcements will have arrived --”

“It was fire that killed your mother, and I knew that if you learned what you could do you would kill others too.” Eoghan’s eyes were cold.

“Others?” Ciaran asked. Something in his father’s voice was alien, afraid and angry all at once. “What do you mean?”

“Come now,” Dolan said, and he too was pale with fear, “you speak madness. A babe cannot set such a blaze, not such as killed your Ceri.”

Told You

“Da?” Ciaran asked again. His arms were beginning to buckle.

Brenna reached out and caught him by the wrist, pulled him up, and really, she was good with a sword, but should she have been that strong?

Eoghan shook his head. “All his life, I protected him from that vile power, and then you - you taught it to him. And he used it to kill. It killed his mother!”

Ciaran cast a glance at Dolan, but he was looking away, embarrassed.

“Da, now’s not the time. We need to run.”

“I told you,” Eoghan said, “to never light a fire.”

Little Things

“Hurry it up.” Deagan offered Brenna a hand.

Eoghan kicked it aside. “You,” he said.

“Could use a hand.” She cast him a pointed look.

“You turned my son into a monster,” Eoghan said.

Ciaran blinked. “Da. A little help here, please?”

“Technically, he’s only half monster, and if he is, well, you married her,” Brenna said. She pulled herself up onto the grass. “Most people don’t hold with calling gods ‘monsters’, though.”

“Ceri was --”

“The goddess of the living fire,” Brenna said. She offered Ciaran a hand. “Turns out your son has learnt to use it a little differently.”

At Eoghan's Feet

Ciaran hung back, waited till Eoghan, Odran and Dolan had a head start. Then he turned and looked at the swarming monsters clambering over the bodies of their fallen comrades. Brenna pulled up beside him, sword dripping with gore and blood.

“Do it,” she said.

Ciaran flung a hand toward the bodies, and as one,they burst into flame, formed a wall of fire. Some of the men couldn’t stop charging in time and ran into the heat, began to scream.

Brenna grabbed his hand and took off running.

They reached the cliff and scrambled up - right to Eoghan’s feet.

And, And, And...

One moment Ciaran was barely hanging onto his sword, desperate to keep his grip on it as he parried one blow, then another, from gigantic greatsword wielded by a man who was more bear than human. The next moment, he was dancing, and his sword was literally on fire, and around him, men were dropping and screaming.

But there were too many of them, and Brenna and Niamh were shouting, Retreat, fall back, for the hills!

And Dolan was shouting back, No! We have to hold the line! Our wives and children!


And then Brenna looked at Ciaran, and he knew.

This Moment

Impossible. She couldn’t have been strong enough to withstand such a blow. But then she pushed, and the man staggered backward. Another man swung at her, and she stabbed him, pushed her sword clean through him, planted a foot against his chest and kicked to free her sword, and then she was on the next man.

Deagan and Malachy leapt into the fray. Niamh’s archers swung their bows wildly, stabbing with loose arrows. Dolan and Eoghan joined the battle, and then Ciaran remembered that he had a sword. He had been preparing for this moment for months.

Block. Trap. Strike.

Meeting

“Now,” Brenna said, “might be a good time for some faster magic.”

One of the enemies lifted a giant bow, and Ciaran stood paralyzed by the bloodlust in those ice-green eyes. The enemy fired. Eoghan shouted. So did Dolan. Ciaran couldn’t move.

And then Brenna was in front of him, clutching the arrow in one hand.

“Or not,” she said. Then she threw back her head and screeched, the sound just like the one her massive black bird made before it dove from the sky. She swung her sword up, and it met the metal of a giant axe.

Once, Twice, Thrice

For a moment, Ciaran thought that total destruction was imminent, that the dragonboats would explode and fall apart in the water, but then there was an unholy scrape and lurch as, one by one, they shot up onto the sand. Men spilled over the sides, men too massive to be human. Some turned to douse the fires, but the rest swarmed toward the ragged band of farmers and druids.

Niamh’s archers loosed another volley of arrows, and a rank of enemies dropped. One man unstrapped a massive axe from his back and swung it once, twice, thrice. Then he charged.

Screaming

“Are you mad?” Ciaran asked, but then all along the row of archers, arrowheads burst into flame.

“Witch!” Dolan cried, and Eoghan leveled his spade at her.

Brenna looked at them coolly, and Ciaran thought he saw something like power glimmer in her golden eyes. “You’ll want something faster than my brand of witchcraft once those men make it ashore.” And then she caught Ciaran’s gaze, and he knew. He swallowed hard, darted a glance at his father.

Niamh said, “Fire.”

Arrows zipped through the air like a rain of falling stars. Prows burst alight. And then there was screaming.

Ready

The fishermen cast her contemptuous looks.

“Now’s not the time for infighting,” Niamh began, and another fisherman spat at her,

“You should be with the other women. Where it’s safe.”

“If we don’t stay here,” Brenna said, “soon nowhere will be safe.”

The ships loomed bigger and faster on the horizon. Ciaran thought he could see teeth painted onto the sharp prows.

Niamh called out to the archers. “Ready your line!”

They nocked arrows and poised to fire. Brenna lowered her head and bit into her own wrist. Blood flowed, and she used it to draw on her own skin.

Of War

Ciaran skidded to a halt beside Brenna, gave his sword a few practice swings.

“Right. What’s the plan?”

Eoghan gaped at him. “Where did you get that sword?”

“Er...” Ciaran darted a glance at his father nervously. “It was a --”

“Necessary precaution,” Odran said. “Don’t want the lad dying before he’s useful, aye?”

“We’re just peat farmers,” Eoghan said. “How can any of us possibly be useful in this fight?”

“We’ve sent our Padraig to the next village for reinforcements,” one of the fishermen said.

“I doubt they’ll get here in time,” Brenna said.

“What do you know of war?”

Doomed or Not

“What are you doing here?”

“We were involved in a dastardly ritual when the sight of the dragon-boats disrupted our vile magic,” Niamh said dryly.

Eoghan twitched.

“Though you may hate us,” Deagan said, “this country is ours as much as it is yours, and we’ll defend it to our deaths.”

“Aye,” Eoghan said. “The village men are coming as well.”

About fifty men came careening across the sands, Ciaran loping at the head of them. Most were armed with fishing spears or farming implements.

“We’re doomed,” Malachy said.

“No,” Odran said, turning sightless eyes toward Ciaran, “we’re not.”

Incoming

Brenna hissed orders across the line. Deagan and Malachy had control of two flanks while Niamh badgered the archers into place. Odran loomed beside her, massive staff in hand. Blind and old though he may have been, he was the most seasoned warrior of them all - save Brenna herself.

“How many are there?” a man asked, panting heavily.

Brenna spun, brought up her sword. Eoghan stood in the moonlight before her. Ciaran had inherited his mother’s gifts, but he’d inherited his father’s face.

“At least thirty men per ship,” Brenna said.

Eoghan stared at the blue on her skin. “You.”

What Was Coming

“Where did you get that?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ciaran said. “There’s a whole army of them. They’re going to be here at any moment. We have to send the women, children and aged ito hide, and then we have to fight.”

Eoghan scooped up his massive, sharp-edged spade. “You’re faster - run to the next farm, raise the cry. I’ll head for the shore.”

“There are already people down there,” Ciaran said. “I’ll head for Bain’s farm if you go to Dolan’s - it’s closer.”

“Run swiftly.”

Eoghan followed Ciaran to the door, and he swore when he saw what was coming.

From the Sea

Ciaran loped across the field toward home. He knew Eoghan would have a fit upon learning his son’s midnight absence, but a reprimand was no matter in the face of attack from --

Ciaran cast a glance across the wide seas. The longships sliced through the water toward the shore like so many arrows coming to pierce the land. Down on the sand, Brenna’s band of warriors looked pathetic and tiny in comparison.

Eoghan came awake when Ciaran flung open the front door.

“Da, rouse the village - raiders are coming! From the sea!”

Eoghan blinked. “What?” Then he saw Ciaran’s sword.

Get Started

Ciaran gripped his sword. “What are we going to do? There’s too many of them. You and I couldn’t possibly stop them alone -”

“Go, wake your father, and help him light the watch fires,” Brenna said. “We’ll handle the rest.”

“Who’s we?” Ciaran demanded.

Brenna nodded toward the shore, and then Ciaran saw them, a motley crew of men and women armed with swords, spears, shields, bows and arrows, all stripped to the waist and painted blue, bedecked with gold. Brenna shrugged off her cloak, drew her sword, and started toward the edge of the cliff.

“Go. We’ll get started.”

Where the Sky is White

They raced toward the shore, prows decorated with skulls of beasts with horns like Ciaran had never seen. Massive sails whipped in the wind, and hundreds of oars, like the legs of insects that prowled the grass, dipped rhythmically in the water, as if the boats were beasts and the oars were their legs running.

“Who are they? Where are they from? Why are they here?” he asked. He was terrified.

By contrast, Brenna looked resigned and almost...sad. “They are the hammer of Thor. They’re from the north where the sky is white, and they’re here for your land.”

Longships

“Come with me,” Brenna said. She took up her sword, so Ciaran took his up too, doused the fire with a stray thought as he followed her through the trees, toward the shore.

“We going to train down on the beach? But Da might see,” Ciaran said.

Brenna shook her head. “Just look.” She paused, high up on the point overlooking the northern sea. “Can you see it?”

Ciaran squinted, but all he could see was the darkness where sea met sky. “See what?”

“You’ll see it. Just wait.”

And they waited, and waited, and then Ciaran saw them.

Longships.

Good Time

Brenna stared up at him, golden eyes bright, and then she swallowed hard.

“Well done,” she said, and she smiled.

Ciaran stared at her mouth.

She blinked at him. “Ciaran?”

“Right. Er...thanks.” He set the sword aside, offered her a hand up. She dusted herself off, and for the first time, Ciaran was distracted by the gleam of perspiration at her collarbone.

“You did well,” Brenna said. “In good time, too.”

Ciaran cocked his head to one side. “Good time for what? You mentioned, before, that danger was coming, but in all these months I’ve seen none of it.”

Finally, Unforgettable

After several months, Ciaran began to hold his own. At least, he thought he was - he couldn’t tell if Brenna was going easy on him or if he really was just that good. On random nights he would creep through the woods, get a fire going with a hand gesture and a thought, and then Brenna would appear, sword at the ready. Sometimes she ambushed him; sometimes she bowed to him; sometimes she made him kneel and breathe and listen to the rhythm of his own heart.

The day he finally made her surrender - sword to her throat - was unforgettable.

Spare Moments

The first duel was the worst. Ciaran had heard of the warrior women who painted themselves blue and screamed down the walls of enemy cities, but he had thought, as had the other lads in the village, that they were just stories. He’d seen grizzled warriors in the village, taking on a huntsman or woodsman for money, and they were fierce fighters, strong and fast.

Brenna...moved like wind and water, every motion smooth, almost as if she was dancing and the sword was her partner...or part of her.

But Ciaran trained hard, in every spare moment he had.

Promises Kept

As Ciaran watched, she sketched a symbol, uttered a foreign sound, and then, to his surprise, she drew a needle from the hem of her sleeve, pricked her own finger, and splashed blood through the air.

Water swirled from nowhere and soundly doused the fire, bringing it back to a low, spluttering flame in the circle of stones.

“Well,” she said, “apparently you have the natural talent. Now you just need some refinement.”

“Can I do that?” Ciaran asked. “Summon water as I summon fire?”

“That was no Druid trick,” Brenna said. “Bring your sword, lad. I promised a duel.”

Drawing on Air

What started as a simple hearth blaze spiraled higher and higher, stretching toward the sky. Ciaran, who had always been just a little bit afraid of fire, jumped when the logs crackled and popped. Sparks danced in the air, and some of the showered down the sides of the column of fire that was slowly winding upward. They landed on the ground, and to Ciaran’s horror, one of Brenna’s blankets caught fire.

All he could do was emit a terrified squeak.

Brenna paused. “What’s wrong?” She blinked when she saw the blaze, and she reached out, drew in the air.

Blossom

Ciaran gazed up at Brenna, confirming that he’d heard properly. She just smiled at him and made her blade sing through the air.

A strange thrill rose in Ciaran’s chest. He was doing something...bad. That he knew. He was breaking rules by starting a fire, going against his father’s lifelong restriction, but at least now he knew why his father had the rule - he was afraid of what Ciaran could do.

But if he learned from Brenna, he would be able to control his talent, his father’s fears would be unfounded.

Ciaran stretched forth one hand, and fire blossomed.

Train You

Ciaran was confused. Brenna looked amused.

“What did you do now?”

“I..don’t know.”

Brenna rose up, gave her sword a few practice swings. “See if you can light it again.”

Ciaran stared at the blackened logs. “How?”

“The same way you did it last night, I reckon.”

Ciaran turned his stare on her.

Brenna twirled her sword, making it sing through the air. “I said I’d train you, didn’t I?”

“But I thought - with a sword --”

“A sword isn’t a person’s only weapon. Now...light the fire. When it’s lit, then you can do me the honor of duel.”

Out

Ciaran stared. “How did you do that?” he asked. The fire had started too quickly to be normal - he’d seen no spark of flint and tinder; she’d had nothing in her hands when she knelt.

Brenna glanced at him from beneath her lashes. “I’ve learned a few things, here and there. The Holy Men have their ways.”

And suddenly Ciaran knew - he was one of the Holy Men. He could start fires with his mind, just like Brenna, and his father knew it, which was why he’d turned Brenna away, and --

He reached for the fire, and it went out.

And Then They Blazed

Ciaran paused in unwrapping his sword. All day he was sure he’d imagined starting a fire without more than a thought, because no one would ever ask him to start a fire, but here she was, asking him to do it again.

“I can’t light a fire,” he said. “Da won’t let me.”

Brenna blinked at him, unwrapping her own sword. “What? I saw you last night - you lit one just fine.”

Ciaran shook his head.

Brenna shrugged. “Aye, if you’re going to be odd. I’ll do it, then.” She knelt, tossed logs into the ring, and then they blazed.

Fire and Started

She killed people and wielded a sword; she was well past the marrying age and yet showed no signs of having a husband or children of her own.

“Did your parents approve of your path in life?”

She cast him an unreadable look. “My parents died, and then my path was re-set.”

They broke through a cluster of shrubbery and then they were standing in a clearing. A ring of stones marked a spot for a fire, and several blankets and bowls marked Brenna’s habitation. Maybe she lived somewhere different every night.

“Light a fire and let’s get started.”

Blotting Out the Stars

Brenna veered away from the cliffs and beach, instead heading across the vast expanse of grass - toward the woods. Where the druids lived.

“I thought we were training,” Ciaran said.

“We are,” Brenna said. “Just not out where everyone can see. D’you want old Aoife to tell your Da you’ve been consorting with one of the armed guards of the Holy Men?”

When she put it like that...Ciaran blinked. “You’re an armed guard? So you defend the Holy Men?”

“And kill them, as necessary.” Brenna led him into the trees where they became thicker, darker, blotting out the stars.

Training Time

Ciaran came awake sharply, and for one moment he thought he’d heard his mother’s voice. Then he realized there was a demon hovering over him, and it was staring at him with bright golden eyes. A human hand clamped over his mouth before he could scream.

“Sh! You don’t want to wake your father, now do you?”

Ciaran’s racing heart started to slow. It was Brenna.

She eased her hand off of his mouth, and then she beckoned, headed for the open window. Ciaran scooped up the sword she’d given him - hidden beside his pallet - and followed.

Time to train.

Defeat and Bed

No, he definitely hadn’t imagined it. Ciaran shook his fist at the kindling and thought so hard he was afraid that vein in his forehead might burst. But the kindling just lay there.

He sighed and sat back, rubbed his eyes. He had no idea how long he’d sat there, and it was likely almost time to get up, and Da would come looking for him, and he couldn’t be caught trying to light things on fire.

Ciaran stood up. As an afterthought, he scattered the kindling with his foot so Da wouldn’t suspect. Then, defeated, he went to bed.

Light

He knelt behind the shed, the pile of kindling before him, and stretched out one hand. Then he closed his eyes and thought as hard as he could.

Light!

Nothing.

Ciaran opened one eye.

Light!

Not a spark.

He reached out and poked the kindling experimentally. It was dry enough, wasn’t it? And he was doing exactly what he’d been doing in Brenna’s cave, right?

Come on, light! he thought.

Not even a puff of smoke.

Ciaran waved his hand fiercely at the kindling. Light already!

No reaction from the kindling.

Ciaran sat back, miffed. Maybe he’d just imagined it?

Wouldn't It?

The only thing Ciaran was interested in trying again was lighting a fire by thinking about it. He’d actually done it, hadn’t he? But he accepted the sword from Brenna and ducked out of her cave, hurried along the beach. On the way, he paused and scooped up some driftwood, and as he crossed the grass he scooped up some twigs for kindling as well.

While his father slept, he could experiment. Because that would make sense, wouldn’t it? His father forbidding him from ever starting a fire because he could it with his mind.

Ciaran settled in to experiment.

Tomorrow Night

Brenna rapped Ciaran lightly upside the skull with the pommel of the blade.

“Hello! Are you still in there?”

Ciaran jerked his gaze away from the fire. “Sorry. Yes, of course.” He reached for the blade.

Brenna paused, studied him. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“You look as though you’ve never seen a fire before.” She seemed amused.

“I have,” Ciaran said. “It’s just --” He faked a yawn.

“Right.” Brenna shook her head. “I keep forgetting that normal people need sleep. Look, take this sword home with you, get some rest, and we’ll try again tomorrow night, yes?”

“All right.”

Just Thinking

Ciaran scanned his immediate surroundings, but it was fairly obvious that Brenna lived more sparsely than the village beggar. He stared at the pile of kindling helplessly. In the background, Brenna was muttering to herself, searching.

Just light, Ciaran thought. He reached out and poked the kindling.

Sparks flew, and heat blazed up his arm. He cried out and wrenched his hand back, terrified.

“That was well done,” Brenna said, coming to stand beside him. She held out a sword. “Here. It’s lighter than mine.”

Ciaran stared at the merrily-crackling fire. He’d lit it just by thinking about it.

Without Those

Ciaran blinked. He hadn’t expected that. Everyone in the village knew about Eoghan’s stupid rule, and so he’d never been allowed anywhere near anyone else’s hearth. Brenna gestured toward a ring of stones where she’d gathered some driftwood and kindling and knelt to unwrap a bundle beside a pathetic pile of rags that must have served as her bed.

“All right.” Ciaran knelt beside the ring of stones and stared at the kindling. She had no flint or tinder. How did one set a fire without those? He wasn’t going to admit he didn’t know how to start a fire.

Will You?

Brenna eyed Ciaran, assessing. Then she drew her sword, offered it to him. “Go ahead. Give it a good swing.”

Ciaran grinned and accepted it from her - and grunted at its weight. He looked down at it, then at Brenna.

“I’m stronger than I look,” she said. She smirked when he handed the sword back.

“Fine, maybe I was hasty,” Ciaran said. “Will you still teach me?”

“Aye,” Brenna said. “I’ve a practice sword in my bower. Come along.”

She led him into one of the caves, flung off her cloak and set it aside. “Light a fire, will you?”

Of Thinking and Knowing

“You could teach me.” Ciaran followed Brenna as she started along the shoreline. After a moment, he realized where she was headed - the caves along the Giants’ Road.

She looked up at him, and was there laughter in her golden eyes?

“Perhaps.”

Ciaran fell into step beside her. “I’d make a great warrior,” he said. “I’m taller and stronger than you - I could wield that sword easily.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.” Ciaran had worked hard every day of his life; he was just as strong, if not stronger than those fishermen and farmers who flirted in the markets.

Valhalla and Hel

“What are you looking at?” Ciaran asked.

“Just watching the sea...and waiting. For the thunder to strike.”


Ciaran shrugged. “Didn’t you look at the dawn? There will be no storm tonight,” he said. “Besides, lightning strikes, not thunder.”

“That you know of,” Brenna said, and there was something ominous in her tone. “You should go to bed, and I...should train.”

“I thought I ought to run away,” Ciaran said.

Brenna glanced at him as she sheathed her sword. “You should. You’ll not stand a chance when Odin’s Warriors come calling to send your people to Valhalla and Hel.”

Their Colors

“You’re not my mother,” Ciaran said. Disappointment and cold shock washed over him. He wrapped his arms around himself and hunched his shoulders, staring bleakly at Brenna.

“What made you think I was?”

“I could hear her,” he said. “She was calling my name.”

“I thought your mother was dead,” Brenna said.

Ciaran lifted his chin. “I could hear her.”

“You sure you’re not afflicted of the moon?”

“I heard her,” Ciaran insisted. He eyed Brenna’s sword warily. “Why are you down here again? I thought druids lived in the forest.”

“I’m not a druid - I just wear their colors.”

Sneaking Up on a Woman

Ciaran eased the window open, but the grassy field beyond the hut was empty. He climbed out, barefoot and cold, and circled around the hut. No one was at the bog either.

But then he saw a figure down on the seashore, a woman in a cloak, hand outstretched toward the waves.

Ciaran, the woman said again.

He hurried toward the cliff, scrambled down the treacherous boulders, sprinted across the sand.

“Mum!” he cried.

The woman spun around, and a sword flashed in the moonlight.

Then Brenna said, “Are you mad, sneaking up on a woman like that?”

Ciaran stilled.

Call His Name

Ciaran was awakened in the night by a woman calling his name. He swam out of a dreamy haze where he was standing on the beach talking to Brenna’s reflection in a tide pool, and his first thought was that she had sneaked into the hut and his father would wake up and go mad with anger, but when he opened his eyes, he and his father were alone.

Ciaran, the woman called, and something in Ciaran knew. He rose up off his pallet.

“Mother?”

Come outside, my son, she said, and Ciaran felt something tug him toward the window.

Careful, Promise

Brenna stared into the flames and imagined she could see the Northern Hordes descending on the rocky shores where the giants once crossed the sea. She wondered if the man leading the charge would wear Dagaz’s face and smile and have his green, green eyes. She knew hundreds of years had passed since she and Angelus - who went by Malak these days - had set foot in the icy kingdom to bring Old Master’s will to fruition, that Dagaz was long buried and forgotten.

She just knew that she’d never forget his face.

“I promise to be very careful,” she said.

Hands and Smiles

“What you saw shall come to pass, then?” Odran asked.

Brenna said, “The sons of the North are coming with their long ships and their thunder god to bring golden and red hair and blood and destruction to the shores of your green land.”

“And the son of Brighid?”

“Will be ready to fight, or he will die,” Brenna said.

Niamh arched an eyebrow. “You be careful with that lad,” she said. “I’ve seen him. He has quick hands and a quicker smile.”

Deagan laughed. “No one has quicker hands than our Brenna - have you seen her with a sword?”

Death and Thunder

“You knew that was going to happen, didn’t you?” Ciaran demanded, miffed, but then he remembered who he was talking to.

Brenna was still laughing. “It’s why I turned away.”

Ciaran had questions he wanted to ask, about where she was from - because she obviously wasn’t really from Eire. How had she come? Over the sea? By magic?

“You should sleep,” she said. “And maybe, tomorrow, think about going somewhere far away.” The laughter slid off her face, and in the moonlight, her golden eyes were almost brown.

“Far away? Why?” Ciaran asked.

“Death and thunder are on the way.”

Stillness and Motion

Brenna glared, and the man’s voice sobered. Ciaran could only watch, puzzled and afraid, and Brenna’s expression became grimmer. Eventually she nodded, lifted the bowl, and emptied the water onto the sand. Ciaran stared as the man’s image spilled and distorted and then sank into shore.

“What’s going on?” Ciaran asked.

Brenna lifted the bowl in her arms and turned away from the sea, and it was then that Ciaran realized that, during her entire conversation with the man, the sea had been utterly, unnaturally still. Moments later, a wave crashed down on both of them.

Ciaran yelped. Brenna laughed.

Laughter on the Water

“No, he’s not,” Brenna said.

Ciaran swallowed hard. He’d heard the druids sacrificed people to appease gods and make apples grow on trees, but this type of magic was - Brenna was a powerful sorceress. Should he bow or...?

“He’s just very far away, and this is the only way I can speak to him,” Brenna said. “Shouldn’t you be fast asleep, dreaming of a hard day’s work for tomorrow?”

“So...he’s a real person?” Ciaran peered into the bowl.


The man waved, and Ciaran lurched back.

Brenna sighed and said something in that foreign language that made the man laugh.

Dead Man Talking

Ciaran wondered if he should turn, leave her be, but then he realized she was speaking. To the bowl. It was a language he’d never heard, a touch guttural, rolling in other places. Unable to help himself, Ciaran drew nearer, and he saw there was a face on the surface of the water, a man, handsome, as dark-skinned as Brenna and even more dark-eyed. The man said something, grinned, and Brenna turned, looked at Ciaran.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I saw you,” Ciaran said. “I thought you were going to drown. Is that man...dead?”

On the Seashore

Ciaran dropped both bowls and went careening down the grass. He leapt off the edge of the short cliff and hit the sand, rolled, staggered to his feet.

“Look out!” he yelled.

And then he slowed.

The figure was Brenna, and she had a massive bowl set out before her. Her head was tipped back and her arms raised high, and she was chanting something above the sound of the waves.

Ciaran could only stare as the wave crashed down on her. When it retreated, she was still standing there, drenched, arms outstretched, and the bowl was filled with water.

Wondering

Ciaran hunched his shoulders defensively. “I dunno. I was just...wondering.”

“Well, stop it,” Eoghan said gruffly. He plunked his bowl down on the hearthstone near Ciaran’s knee. “Do the washing up before you turn in.”

“Aye,” Ciaran said. He watched his father settle onto his pallet of bracken, then finished his share of stew. He wandered down to the well to draw water for washing up. While he was dawdling with the rope, he looked up, and he saw someone down on the seashore. A giant blue swell was about to crash down, drag the person out to sea.

Curiosity, Sudden

That night, at supper, Ciaran stared down at the crude wooden bowls he’d carved for himself and his father years ago.

“Da,” he said, “tell me about Mam?”

Eoghan grunted. “What d’you want to know? I’ve told you everything I know.”

Ciaran knew that his mother was a foreigner from distant shores and she’d had the same red hair he did, and that she’d been a weaver par excellence, but that was all he knew.

“What was she like? Was she funny? Did she smile like me?” Ciaran asked.

Eoghan stared at his son, brows furrowed. “Why the sudden curiosity?”

You Said

Ciaran’s brow furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Brenna said, “I cannot help you.” And she scooped up her harp and sword and started to walk away.

Ciaran stared, dumbfounded. Then he started after her. “Oy, you said --”

An old, blind man with a cane came tap-tapping toward the blanket, and he seated himself in Brenna’s place. He smiled in Ciaran’s general direction. “Can I help you with anything, lad? Interested in buying a fine bowl?”

Ciaran took a deep breath. “No, thank you,” he said. He spun on his heel and started on the road home.

Not For You

“Is what true?” Brenna’s hands stilled.

Ciaran met her gaze tentatively. “That you can see people who are...dead.”

“It’s true if you’ve the power,” Brenna said. “Who is it that you want to see?”

Ciaran glanced over his shoulder; the other lads were busy flirting with the girls who’d come to buy wool. He turned back to Brenna; she had to be foreign, with that skin and those eyes. “My mother,” he said. “She died when I was just a baby.”

Something unreadable crossed Brenna’s face. “I’m sorry - I cannot help you.”

“Then it’s not true.”

“Not for you.”

Not Exactly

Ciaran made the rest of his trades, keeping a weather eye on Brenna all the while. He managed to avoid getting into an argument with Aidan while bartering for some rabbit meat. When Aidan became distracted by Aednat, Ciaran ducked away, wandered slowly but deliberately over to where Brenna was singing a song in some unknown language.

“Hello,” he said.

She smiled up at him. “Hello, Ciaran.”

“You remember my name,” he said.

“Yes. Do you remember mine?”

“It’s Brenna.”

“Indeed,” she said. “Are you looking to trade?”

“Not exactly,” Ciaran said. “It’s just...is it true? About those bowls?”

Just A Girl

“Seeing?” Aoife echoed. “Seeing what?”

“Your fortune or fall, your lover or your child - whatever you desire, if you’re willing to pay the price,” Brenna said. She strummed a glissando of notes, and Ciaran went still, listening intently to the conversation. “You can see the living and the dead, and the yet to be born.”

“You’re a witch,” Aoife said flatly.

“Hardly,” Brenna said. “I’m just a girl, waiting for a boy or a war or something to make my life matter.”

“How much for a bowl?”

“What have you got?”

“I’m a decent spinner,” Aoife said.

“One spool, then.”

Holding or Seeing

Ciaran waited until Fionn the fisherman was distracted before he made a trade with Fionn’s grandmother, Fingula, who took pity on Ciaran, “the poor, motherless mite”. He glanced over his shoulder to where Brenna was minding her wares and wondered what she was doing at market. Didn’t druids spend their days dancing in the trees or something?

She had a sword by her side, as fine a weapon as any chieftain carried, but she seemed languid, amused by all she saw.

Aoife stopped to talk to her.

“What are you peddling, lass?”

“Bowls, for holding or seeing as you need.”

A Girl Amused

Brenna sat on the ground next to a blanket laid with fine pottery and some woven cloth folded in neat stacks. She had her hood tossed back, and her hair - blacker than any Ciaran had seen - gleamed in the sun. The blue swirls on her arms looked surreal, and she seemed less interested in making sales than in playing a small lap-harp, picking out idle melodies the likes of which Ciaran had never before heard.


Several children from the village ventured close, but their mothers pulled them away, making the sign against evil in Brenna’s direction. She just smiled.

Until

Ciaran wasn’t sure whether he liked the days when his father sent him down to market by himself to trade peat for supplies. Some days, when the weather was fine, Ciaran would huddle miserably beneath his cloak and curse his pale skin, his odd freckles and unnaturally red hair. Most Gaels were dark-haired, and even though Fingula and the old wives said he was lucky, the rest of the lads in the village - strong, hulking farmboys, hunters and fishermen - liked to mock him.

Today Ciaran was determined to make the trades and go straight home.

Until he saw her.

Son of Brighid

“So you’ve met him,” Deagan said.


Brenna nodded, finished skinning the rabbit with a swift tug. “Hair almost the color of wine, eyes the color of the sea - as you said.”

“I’m surprised Eoghan let you near him,” Niamh said, handed Brenna a spit for the rabbit.

“Eoghan didn’t,” Brenna said.

Malachy laughed. “That’s our brave lass. What did you think of him?”

“He’s just a boy,” Brenna said. “Nothing to be afraid of.”

“The son of Brighid is a mighty force. We should all fear him,” Odran said, his blind gaze fixed on nothingness. “He isn’t human. Not really.”

Brenna

Before Ciaran could take a bite of the apple, the bird took to the sky with a harsh cry.

“Farewell, lad,” Brenna said, and she vaulted over the stone wall after it.

“My name’s Ciaran,” he protested, but she vanished over the crest of the hill almost too quickly to be humanly possible.

“Lad, bring your father some wine, would you?” Eoghan called from the other side of the hut.

Ciaran jumped. “Yes, Da!” He took a bite of the apple, then ducked into the hut for the jug of wine kept cooling under the table.

Her name was Brenna.

Apple Seeds

“My name is Brenna,” she said, and she smiled at him, held out her cupped hands. “Would you like some of my apple?”

Apple. She was just holding an apple. The red was the skin of an apple. Fruit. Edible. Poison seeds, yes, but --

“Thank you,” Ciaran said. He set the bricks of peat down by her feet and reached out. He jumped when her fingers, sticky-damp with juice, tangled with his, and then she pressed half of the apple into his hand. She’d cut it in half, and he saw that the seeds formed a five-pointed star.

Blood Magic

One gold coin would keep a family in peat for a month. Ciaran nodded and accepted the coin, then ducked around to the shed. He darted a nervous glance at his father, but Eoghan was still working and whistling to himself, assuming his son was still hard at work too.

Ciaran drew several bricks of peat out of the shed and wrapped them in old sacking for good measure before skittering back around the hut.

“Miss,” he began, and drew up short.

She was leaning against the wall, cradling a handful of bright, damning red.

It was druid blood magic.

Suffice

“Your kind,” Ciaran echoed. “What is your kind?”

“Some call the men druids, or holy men,” the woman said.

Ciaran had heard of the druids, the mad men who prayed to trees and worshipped goddesses and conducted rituals by blood. He drew back.

The woman smiled. “I suppose you’ve heard the stories, then?”

“I...cannot take so much money,” Ciaran finally said. He wasn’t afraid of old wives’ tales. Even if the other village lads weren’t there to see him, he would be brave.

The woman paused and looked down at the coins, then up at him. “Will one suffice?”

By Fire

Ciaran nodded and started back toward the shed where he and his father stored their cut peat, but something in the woman’s eyes made him falter, pause. She’d come buying peat the day before - that was what she wanted, right? But then he listened to her words in his mind once more, and a bright blush stole over his features.

“Er...how much peat do you want?”

The woman held out a hand; again with the mass of gold coins.

“It is peat you want, isn’t it?”

The woman laughed softly. “Yes. Warmth by fire is preferable for my kind.”

Warmth Tonight

Ciaran raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I mean no harm.”

The woman narrowed her eyes at him, and Ciaran saw something like recognition flash in her eyes. But then it was gone, and she let her hand fall to her side.

“You startled me,” she said. She glanced up at the bird, and then she whistled.


Ciaran could only stare as the thing settled on her shoulder. She reached up, stroked its crest absently.

“I don’t think your father would like you talking to me,” she said. “But I am still looking for a little warmth tonight.”

Lure

Ciaran checked over his shoulder for his father once more, but Eoghan was on his hands and knees, cutting peat neatly with his knife. He wouldn’t be able to see if Ciaran, say, went to talk to the lady. Ciaran set down his spade and rose slowly, ducked around the side of the hut.

“I have some chicken lungs, if you think those will lure your pet down,” he said.

The woman turned to him, and Ciaran saw that her eyes were bright golden. And then he saw that she’d reached beneath her cloak - for the hilt of a sword.

Wide-Eyed and Lovely

Ciaran knew her voice - it was the woman who had come seeking peat, the woman her father had turned away. He’d tried to ask Fingula about the ‘holy men’, but she’d just shuddered and shook her head and asked him to help her build a fence to pen in her goats. Ciaran glanced at his father, but Eoghan hadn’t noticed.

Ciaran rose to his feet, started toward the hut, and then he paused, for the woman was standing beside his window, and she’d flung back her hood, raised her arms as if she could catch the bird.

She was lovely.

Memory

Dawn off the horizon turned the sea pale lavender tinged with gold. Ciaran looked up from his work and dragged a hand over his brow. Heat came early in the summer, and he’d been working hard for an hour already.

A harsh cry broke the morning stillness above the sound of his father’s labor, and Ciaran turned, saw a massive black bird swoop across the sky and settled on the roof of the hut. Ciaran thought it looked at him, but then he’d been imagining a lot of that lately.

And then a woman called out, “Machnamh! Return to me!”