Once More With Feeling (19 page)

But dreams had power and risks.

“My ponies screamed, and I couldn't save them. He set them afire, and they screamed. Alastar came and knocked the bad man down. I rode away on Alastar, but I couldn't save the ponies. I'm afraid of the bad man in the dream.”

“He won't hurt you. I'll never let him hurt you. Only dream ponies.” Eyes tightly closed, she kissed Teagan's bright, tousled hair, her cheeks. “We'll dream of more. Green ones, and blue ones.”

“Green ponies!”

“Oh, aye, green as the hills.” Snuggling, Sorcha lifted a hand, circled her finger, twirled it, twirled it until ponies—blue ones, green ones, red ones, yellow ones—danced in the air above their heads. Listening to her youngest giggle, Sorcha stored up her fears, her anger, closed them in with determination.

He would never harm her children. She would see him dead, and herself with him, before she allowed it.

“All the ponies to their oats now. And you come with me then, and we'll break our fast as well.”

“Is there honey?”

“Aye.” The simple wish for a treat made Sorcha smile. “There'll be honey for good girls.”

“I'm good!”

“You are the purest and sweetest of hearts.”

Sorcha gathered up Teagan, and her baby held tight, whispered in her ear. “The bad man said he would take me first as I'm the youngest and weak.”

“He'll never take you, I swear it, on my life.” She eased Teagan back so her daughter could see the truth of it in her eyes. “I swear it to you. And, my darling, weak you're not, and never will be.”

So she fed the fire, poured honey on the bread, and made the tea and oats. They'd all need their strength for what she would do that day. What she needed to do.

Her boy came down from the loft, his hair tousled and tangled from sleep. He rubbed his eyes, sniffed the air like a hound. “I fought the black sorcerer. I didn't run.”

Inside her breast Sorcha's heart kicked to a gallop. “You dreamed. Tell me.”

“I was at the turn of the river where we keep the boat, and he came, and I knew him for a sorcerer, a black one because his heart is black.”

“His heart.”

“I could see in his heart, though he smiled, friendly like, and offered me some honey cake. ‘Here, lad,' says he, ‘I've a fine treat for you.' But the cake was full of worms and black blood—inside it. I could tell it was poisoned.”

“You saw inside his heart, and inside the cake, in the dream.”

“I did, I promise.”

“I believe you.” So her little man had more than she'd known.

“I said to him, ‘Eat the cake yourself, for it's death in your hand.' But he threw it aside, and the worms crawled out of it and burned to ashes. He thought he would drown me in the river, but I threw rocks at him. Then Roibeard came.”

“Did you call the hawk in your dream?”

“I wished for him, and he came, and he flashed out with his talons. The black sorcerer went away, like smoke in the wind. And I waked in my bed.”

Sorcha drew him close, stroked his hair.

She'd unleashed her fury at Cabhan, so he came after her children.

“You're brave and true, Eamon. Now, break your fast. We've the stock to tend.”

Sorcha moved closer to Brannaugh, who stood at the base of the ladder. “And you as well.”

“He came into my dream. He said he would make me his bride. He . . . tried to touch me. Here.” Pale with the telling, she covered her chest with her hands. “And here.” Then between her legs.

Shaking, she pressed her face to her mother when Sorcha embraced her. “I burned him. I don't know how, but I made his fingers burn. He cursed me, and made fists with his hands. Kathel came, leaping onto the bed, snarling, snapping. Then the man was gone. But he tried to touch me, and he said he'd make me his bride, but—”

Rage woke inside the fear. “He never will. My oath on it. He'll never put his hands on you. Eat now, and eat all. There's much work to do.”

She sent them all out to feed and water the animals, clean the stalls, milk the fat cow.

Alone she prepared herself, gathered her tools. The bowl, the bells, the candles, the sacred knife, and the cauldron. She chose the herbs she'd grown and dried. And the three copper bracelets Daithi had bought her at a long ago summer fair.

She went out, drew deep of the air, lifted her arms to stir the wind. And called the hawk.

He came on a cry that echoed over the trees and the hills beyond that, which caused servants in the castle by the river to cast their eyes up. His wings, spread wide, caught the glint of the winter sun. She lifted her arm so those wicked talons clutched on her leather glove.

Her eyes looked into his, and his into hers.

“Swift and wise, strong and fearless. You are Eamon's, but mine as well. You will serve what comes from me. Mine will serve what comes from you. I have need of you, and ask this for my son, for your master and your servant.”

She showed him the knife, and his eyes never wavered.

“Roibeard, I ask of thee, a drop of blood from your breast times three. A single feather from your great wing, and for these gifts your praises I sing. To guard my son, this is done.”

She pricked him, held the small flask for the three drops. Plucked a single feather.

“My thanks,” she whispered. “Stay close.”

He lifted from her hand, but soared only to the branch of a tree. And closing his wings, watched.

She whistled for the dog. Kathel watched her with love, with trust. “You are Brannaugh's, but mine as well,” she began, and repeated the ritual, gathering the three drops of blood, and a bit of fur from his flank.

Last, she moved into the shed, into the sound of her children laughing as they worked. She took strength from that. And stroked her hand down the pony's face.

Teagan raced over when she saw the knife. “Don't!”

“I do him no harm. He is yours, but mine as well. He will serve what comes from me, and you, as you will serve what comes from him. I have need of you, Alastar, and ask this for my daughter, for your mistress and your servant.”

“Don't cut him. Please!”

“Only a prick, only a scratch, and only if he consents. Alastar, I ask of thee, a drop of blood from your breast times three. A bit of hair from your pretty mane, and for these gifts, I praise your name. To guard my little one, this is done.”

“Just three drops,” Sorcha said quietly as she pricked with the tip of the knife. “Just a bit of his mane. And here now.” Though Alastar stood quiet, his eyes wise and calm, Sorcha laid her hands on the small, shallow cut, pushed her magick into it to heal. For her daughter's tender heart.

“Come with me now, all of you.” She lifted Teagan onto her hip, led the way back into the house. “You know what I am. I have never hidden it. You know you carry the gift, each of you. I have always told you. Your magick is young and innocent. One day it will be strong and quick. You must honor it. You must use it to harm none, for the harm you do will come back on you threefold. Magick is a weapon, aye, but not one to be used against the innocent, the weak, the guiltless. It is a gift and a burden, and you will all carry both. You will all pass both to those who come from you. Today you learn more. Heed me and what I do. Watch, listen, know.”

She moved to Brannaugh first. “Your blood, and mine, with the blood of the hound. Blood is life. Its loss is death. Three drops from thee, three drops from me, and with the hound's, the charm is bound.”

Brannaugh placed her hand in her mother's without hesitation, held steady as Sorcha pricked her with the knife.

“My boy,” she said to Eamon. “Three drops from thee, three drops from me, and from the hawk's heart, to seal three parts.”

Though his lips trembled, Eamon held out his hand.

“And my baby. Don't fear.”

Her eyes shone with tears, but Teagan watched her mother solemnly as she held out her hand.

“Three drops from thee, three drops from me, with the horse as your guide, the magicks ride.”

She mixed the blood, kissed Teagan's little hand. “There now, that's done.”

She lifted the cauldron, slid the vials into the pouch at her waist. “Bring the rest. This is best done outside.”

She chose her spot, on the hard ground with snow lumped in the cool shadows of the trees.

“Should we get firewood?” Eamon asked her.

“Not for this. Stand here, together.” She moved beyond them, called on the goddess, on the earth, the wind, the water and the fire. And cast the circle. The low flame bubbled over the ground, rounded until end met end. And inside, warmth rose like spring.

“This is protection and respect. Evil cannot come within, dark cannot defeat the light. And what is done within the circle is done for good, is done for love.

“First the water, of sea, of sky.” She cupped her hands, opened them over the cauldron, water blue as a sun-kissed lake poured out, poured in. “And the earth, our land, our hearts.”

She flicked one hand, then the other, and rich brown earth spilled into the cauldron. “And the air, song of the wind, breath of body.” She opened her arms, and blew. And like music, the air swept in with earth and water.

“Now the fire, flame and heat, the beginning, the ending.”

She glowed, the air around her simmering, her eyes burning blue as she threw her arms up, cast her hands down.

Fire erupted in the cauldron, shooting flame, dancing sparks.

“These your father gave to me. They are a sign of his love, a sign of mine. You are, all three, of that love.”

She cast the three copper bracelets into the flame, and circling it, added fur and hair and feather, added blood.

“The goddess gifts to me the power so I stand in this place, in this hour. I cast the charm, protect from harm my children three and all that comes from them, from me. The horse, the hawk, the hound, by blood they are ever bound to shield to serve from life to life in joy, in sorrow, in health, in strife.

“In earth, in air, in flame, in sea. As I will, so mote it be.”

Sorcha lifted her arms high, turned her face to the sky.

The fire shot up in a tower, red and gold, wild blue in its core as it spun and twisted into the cold winter sky.

The earth shook. The icy water in the stream went to roaring. And the wind howled like a wolf on the hunt.

Then it stilled, it died, and there were just three children, hand gripping hand, watching their mother—pale as snow now—sway.

Sorcha shook her head as Brannaugh started toward her. “Not yet. Magick is work. It gives, and it takes. It must be finished.” She reached in the cauldron, drew out three copper amulets. “To Brannaugh the hound, to Eamon the hawk, to Teagan the horse.” She slipped an amulet over each child's head. “These are your signs and your shields. They protect you. You must keep them with you always. Always. He cannot touch what you are if you have your shield, if you believe its power, believe in mine and your own. One day you will pass this to one who comes from you. You'll know which. You'll tell your children the story and sing the old songs. You'll take the gift, and give the gift.”

Teagan admired hers, smiled as she turned the small oval in the sunlight. “It's pretty. It looks like Alastar.”

“It's of him, and of you, and of me and your father, of your brother and your sister. And why shouldn't it be pretty?” She lowered to kiss Teagan's cheek. “I have such pretty children.”

She could barely stand, and had to bite back a moan as Brannaugh helped her to her feet. “I must close the circle. We must take everything inside now.”

“We'll help you,” Eamon said, and took his mother's hand.

With her children, she closed the circle, let them carry the tools into the house.

“You need to rest, sit by the fire.” Brannaugh pulled her mother to the chair. “I'll fix you a potion.”

“Aye, and a strong one. Show your brother and sister how it's done.”

She smiled when Teagan wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, when Eamon spread a blanket over her lap. But when she started to reach for the cup Brannaugh brought, her daughter held it back. Then squeezed at the flesh around the cut on her hand until three drops of blood plopped into the cup.

“Blood is life.”

Sorcha sighed. “It is, aye. It is. Thank you.”

She drank the potion, and slept.

•  •  •

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Nora Roberts
is the #1
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bestselling author of more than two hundred novels. She is also the author of the bestselling futuristic suspense series written under the pen name J. D. Robb. There are more than four hundred million copies of her books in print. Visit her online at www.noraroberts.com and facebook.com/noraroberts.