by Nora Roberts
“It’s pleased I am to see you,” she said as she tapped a finger in the air to signal the dog to sit. “I’ve just come down for a cup of tea, and now I’ll have company with it.”
“I hope today’s all right to come.”
“You’re welcome any and all days. Sit, won’t you? I have biscuits for us as well.”
“I’ve been reading the book you made for me. I thought, if you have time, you could show me how to do something from it. Something simple,” she added. “I’ve been practicing the fire. I lit one last night—in the fireplace, I mean.”
“That’s grand.”
“It took awhile,” she admitted, “but then it felt natural. Is that right?”
“Right enough.” After squeezing a hand on Breen’s shoulder, Marg set a plate of cookies on the table.
“I need to ask. I saw Keegan when I left the other day, and he said I needed to train. To train to fight, and use a sword.”
Marg only sighed. “The boy has more patience than once he did, and still barely enough to fill a thimble.”
“So that’s not a no. I couldn’t use a sword to—I mean, even if I learned how to use one, which is doubtful, I couldn’t use it to whack at somebody.”
“There’s time enough to worry about such matters, but I’ll ask you to think what you might do if someone came in the door there with an eye to taking your life, or mine.”
“I—the first thought is run.”
“Not a bad thought, that one.” Smiling, Marg set the tea out. “But if running isn’t enough, would you simply stand and do nothing?”
Breen let out a sigh. “In our schools, I had to take my children—they’re just children—through drills. What they had to do if someone came in to hurt them. Hide. Lock the doors and hide. Run, if that doesn’t work. And it would be for me—as the one who has to look out for them—to fight if there’s no other way. I never had to put that to the test. But I believe, I do, that I’d have done whatever I could to protect them.”
“For this you train?”
“Yes. Yes, as a teacher you do.”
“This isn’t so very different. A sword wouldn’t be your only weapon. You have a strong weapon inside you—to use as a weapon only to protect.”
“I want to learn more about that.”
“So we will. First, I’ve done some reading myself. Your book.”
“Oh.”
“You gave me leave to read it, and so I did.” She looked down at the dog, smiled. “Oh, she’s got you, my man, down to the bone. You have skill with words, mo stór, and that’s a magick as well. Twice I read it through, and I laughed, and I thrilled to our boy’s adventures. So brave and true in the story, just as he is, and sweet of heart even when foolish.”
Marg reached over, patted Breen’s hand. “That’s the truth I promised you, not just a nan’s sentiment. Now, did you send it away to the people who make books?”
“No, I . . .” When Marg’s eyebrows rose up, Breen nodded. “You’re right, they can only say yes if they read it. I’ve done the research on how to submit, so I’ll do it tonight. I’ll just do it.”
“There now, a next step taken. So we’ll take another ourselves. Bring your tea.”
“Where are we going?”
“Out to where I do more than make teas and kitchen magicks.” Marg rose. “We could say we’re off to school.”
“Like Hogwarts?”
“Oh, and sure those are some fine stories. But no, for this, it’s only you and only me.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
They went out, then along a path deeper into the woods, beyond the lean-to where the horse dozed to where the stream curved under a small, arching stone bridge.
Another stone building stood, one half the size of the cottage. Unlike at the cottage, the thick door, covered with carvings, remained closed. Still, flowers spilled out of window boxes on either side of the door.
They crossed the bridge while a delighted Bollocks splashed into the stream.
Marg sent him an indulgent look. “He’ll be fine out here.”
“It’s like a workshop?”
“So it is, as it’s work we do inside. Give me your hand, child.” And she pressed Breen’s hand to the door under her own. “Now the door will open for you as well.”
It did, just like that, opened without a sound.
The sun eked in enough for Breen to make out worktables, shelves full of jars, dried herbs and plants hanging from lines. A couple of wooden chairs and stools.
“Light the fire.” Marg tapped her chest. “From here.”
Like a test, Breen thought, and had to push through nerves as she stepped over to the hearth. She’d practiced, she reminded herself. Last night, again this morning.
So she closed her eyes, visualized the fire, and calmed her mind until she felt heat. And drew that heat up, from belly to heart, from heart to mind.
Just a flicker, weak at first, but she pulled more, opened her eyes. The peat caught, simmered, shimmered, then burned full.
“Well done. Well done indeed. Now the candles. Above you.”
Breen looked up and saw more than a dozen candles in an iron ring. “They’re farther away than I’ve done.”
“Distance is no matter. Light the candles.”
She drew in breath, drew up the heat, and the candles flamed.
“There, you see, you’ve learned by doing what’s already known to you.”
“It’s seductive.”
“Aye, and no harm there as long as you hold your purpose and your promises.”
Now that candlelight, the crackling fire joined the quiet sunlight, she saw the room with its beamed ceiling and rough planked floor arranged into sections. Hanging herbs and flowers, bowls and jars of roots, powders, pale or bold liquids held one area; jars and bowls of crystals and stones, others in freestanding hunks or spears took up another. Dozens of candles, white, black, every color she could name, grouped together on shelves.
A third made a home for tools—pots, more bowls and jars yet to be filled, paddles and spoons, wands, knives with straight or curved blades. A doorless sort of cubby held various fabrics and yarns and ribbons. A book, not unlike the one Marg had given her, stood atop it.
The air smelled dreamily of the herbs—potted and thriving—on the wide sill in front of the window that faced the curving stream.
“Are those cauldrons?”
“They are. Did you study the list of tools in your book?”
“Yes. Cauldrons, bowls, bells, candles, wands, the ritual knives—athames—brooms, goblets, swords.”
“It’s time you learned to use them. Today, we’ll make charms for calm minds, calm hearts, fertility, safe journeys, good fortune, and protection.”
Herbs and crystals, ribbons and cloths—and, above all, Breen learned, intention. It seemed very basic, but she learned quickly the wrong crystal, the wrong herbs in a charm could draw evil rather than repel it, could cause a sleepless night instead of a restful one.
“Now keep this, of your own making.”
Breen took the small purple pouch she’d sewn and filled. “For protection,” she remembered. “I already have this.” She touched the gemstone she wore.
“And now a charm bag as well. Do you remember what you filled it with?”
“Yes, I think. Betony and sage, a piece of amber, one of malachite, another of tourmaline—black tourmaline,” she corrected. “A little shell and a broom straw. And I chanted: By my will, repel all ill. With this charm, protect from harm.”
With a simple nod, Marg gave approval. “Well done. Very well done.”
“What will you do with the others?”
“Give or trade as needs be. A young were I know is hoping for a child. I’ll gift her the fertility charm. But for now, we purify our tools, and put it all away.”
“I don’t suppose you could teach me a spell first.”
Marg laughed. “Mo stór, and so I have. A charm is but a spell in a pouch.”
“A spell in a pouch.” Finding that delightful, she slid it into her pocket. “We didn’t do any love spells. I’d think they’d be popular.”
“A charm or spell to draw another’s attention, to encourage another to look and see—these are common. But a true love spell? These are forbidden, as to bind a heart to you with magick removes choice.”
“I get that. Do they actually work?”
“Sometimes all too well, and always, always with a hard price. A woman might forsake her family, a man might strike down a rival. The bespelled might turn on the bespeller in a fit of jealousy, all twisted from magicks. A heart can go mad with love, after all.”
She could believe it even without personal experience.
“It’s so much about healing, protecting, bringing comfort—everything you’ve taught me so far. When I was little, I wanted to be a vet—an animal doctor. Not just because I loved animals, but because they need someone to take care of them.”
“You have healing in you. I can help bring some out, but Aisling is stronger there.”
They put away cloth and crystals and candles. Breen watched as Marg bathed the scissors and needles they’d used in water drawn in moonlight, how she wiped them dry with a white cloth.
“Now, you’ll take some air, clear your mind. You might walk to see Morena, or Aisling. Then I can show you how to make a wand.”
“You make them?”
“I could give you one, and will, but the making of your own imbues it with your self, your heart, your power. You’ll choose the wood, the stones, the carvings. Your wand is an extension of the magicks inside you.”
“I’m not very crafty,” she began as they walked outside. “Arts and crafty, I mean. Sewing those pouches was pretty much the top of my skill level.”
“And you did well there, didn’t you? Ah, we have company, it seems.”
She recognized the black stallion, unless he had a twin. Standing beside him outside the cabin was a smaller horse. She recognized the type from her young teen’s love affair with horses as a buckskin.
“That would be Keegan’s Merlin, the black beauty there.”
“Yes, I saw him impregnate a mare this morning. She seemed agreeable.”
“Ah, so he’s mated with Mahon’s Eryn then. That’s a fine thing. The handsome gelding is one of Harken’s. He’s called Boy—from Good Boy, as he is one. If the pair of them are inside with Sedric, we won’t find a crumb of those biscuits left.”
Inside, Keegan sat by the fire with Sedric—and Bollocks. The two men each had a tall mug—a tankard, Breen supposed.
“And here they are,” Sedric announced. “I’ve plied Keegan with a mug of ale to keep him from interrupting your work.”
“And fine work it was. I’m told your Merlin did his job of work just this morning.”
“He did at that, and successfully.”
“It took. That’s grand then.”
“Isn’t it too early to know?”
Keegan glanced at Breen. “Harken says she’s carrying, and he’d know.” He rose then, polished off the ale. “I brought Boy, as she has to learn to ride, and Harken says he’d suit her for it.”
“A riding lesson,” Marg said before Breen could object, “a patient and gentle one, would be a fine way for Breen to get some air after being closed up in the workshop.”
“I’d rather walk.”
“Walking won’t take you as far as a good horse.” Keegan cocked his head at her. “Sure you’re not afraid to sit one?”
“Since I haven’t sat on one, that I remember, I don’t know.”
“Best find out then. It’s good ale, thanks.” He started out, stopped to kiss Marg’s cheek, then continued on.
“You loved riding as a child,” Marg told her. “It’s in you.”
“Maybe.” As she stepped out, she had to remind herself she liked horses. What she didn’t like was the idea of getting thrown, or losing control and having a horse run off with her bouncing all over the saddle.
“He knows his job,” Keegan told her. “But you’ll make him anxious if you get up on him all quivering.”
“I’m not quivering.” Maybe a little—inside. But she stepped up.
“You’ll want to mount from his other side, unless you want to ride facing his arse.”
Great start, she thought, and went around to the other side of the horse. “There’s no horn on the saddle. You know, something to grab on to.”
“You’re not in your Wild West with the lasso. I’ve been there,” he added. “It’s a vast place, it is, and I see the purpose of those big, heavy saddles there, but that’s a different world. You’ll have a rein in each hand. You’ll pull the left to go left, right to go right, both to stop. Put your foot in the stirrup and swing your other leg over.”
“Give her a leg up, as a gentleman would,” Marg called from the doorway, but Breen swung her leg over and managed to plant herself.
“Other foot in. Aye, that’s the right length for you. A rein in each hand. Hold them like this.”
He showed her, and because he seemed patient enough, she concentrated on relaxing.
Keegan swung on the leather duster, then mounted Merlin, turned him around. “Left rein, smooth and easy to turn him.”
“Just a walk now, Keegan, till the girl finds her seat. And have her back by the evening meal.”
“She’ll be fine, don’t fret. Heels down, knees in.”
She was riding a horse, Breen thought, and it was . . . okay.
When they got to the road, she turned him again—to the right this time. It didn’t seem so hard, at least not at this pace, this easy clip-clop under a sky that had gone pale blue, and through air that had warmed since the rain ended.
She glanced down to see Bollocks trotting along beside her.
“The dog’s with us. Is that all right?”
“The horses don’t mind dogs; the dog doesn’t mind horses.”
He made her stop, then start again. Made her stop, then get the horse to back up, then go forward. He turned off the road onto a trail that wound through woods where the light went soft and the air cooled.
She saw something come out of an enormous tree before racing away in a blur.
“Elves—some young ones—playing.”
“But . . . was he in the tree?”
“Of.”
A bear ran across the trail, then stopped to give them a good look. Breen’s throat slammed shut so her scream came out as a gurgle. And the bear raced off into the trees.
“That—”
“A were, and a young one. They’re just having a lark in the woods. You’ll need to get used to seeing such things.”
“How do you know if it’s a were or an actual bear that wants to eat you?”
“Bears, those that are the animal only, are more interested in berries than in you. But if you cross paths with one and he takes a dislike to you, you’ll know quick enough.”
He turned to her, as at ease on the stallion as another might have been in a BarcaLounger. “That’s why you learn the sword, the arrow, how to ride at a gallop as well as magicks. It’s survival and it’s duty.”
“I made charms today.”
“Charms, is it? Well then, that’ll send Odran packing in a hurry.”
“Don’t be dismissive. I’ve had dismissive all my life, and I’m done with it. The point is, I’m here and I’m learning. And right now I’m sitting on a goddamn horse.”
Boy saw his chance, swung his head over to grab some tasty-looking leaves. While her stomach pitched in panic, Breen let out a squeal as she slid in the saddle.
Keegan grabbed her arm to right her. “Control him, as he’ll take any opportunity to eat. He thinks he’s a light one on his back. Show him he’s wrong. You’ve the reins. Use them.”
“You could’ve warned me he’d do that.” But she muttered it as she fought Boy’s head back.
As they walked and wound on, she did her best to read the horse, to anticipate. And, though her heart hammer
ed as the trail began to follow the rise and fall of hills, she didn’t squeal again.
When the trees thinned, they crossed a field where sheep scattered. Taking it as a cue, Bollocks chased them. She saw another farm, another dirt road, more cottages, most with clothes flapping on lines.
People worked the fields, the gardens, the livestock, pausing to raise a hand as they rode by.
Now and again Keegan paused to exchange some words, to introduce her—and politely.
She met a dozen, including a little girl who shyly offered her a daisy, and smiled when Breen tucked it in her hair.
That gesture earned Breen her first approving look from Keegan.
“You knew everyone’s name,” Breen commented as they rode on. “Do you know everyone here?”
“I was born in the valley,” he said simply. “They need to get a look at you, those who haven’t. Eian O’Ceallaigh’s daughter. And you at them, and more of Talamh than Marg’s cottage.”
Boy took an interest in a hedgerow. She pulled him back, muttered, “Don’t embarrass me. Is that a lake?”
She saw it in the distance, the way the sun struck the odd and eerie water of green.
The same color, she realized, as the river where Odran had once caged her.
“Lough na Fírinne. It means truth. And there all who choose dive in when the time comes for a new taoiseach.”
“For the sword.”
“Aye, for Cosantoir.”
She glanced at the one at his side. “Nan told me. You were just a boy.”
“I made my choice. You’re doing well enough. We’ll trot now before Merlin’s bored into sleep.”
“I’m not ready to—”
“You’re ready enough. Heels down, knees in. Match Boy’s gait. He’s got a smooth one.”
He nudged Merlin into a trot, and since Boy followed the leader, left her no choice. Her butt slapped the saddle; her teeth snapped together.
“Match his gait,” Keegan repeated. “Sit up straight, and lift and lower with him or your arse will be black and blue.”
She figured it already was. “I don’t know how to—”
But she did. Whether it was muscle memory, self-defense, or blind luck, she began to move with the quick, lively trot.