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.”