by Nora Roberts
“Hold it, strengthen it. Bring it.”
And she did. She held a ball of white light in her hand with his wrapped on her wrist. She looked up at him, the light shining in her hand, in her heart, in her eyes.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Enough to light your way.”
He released her wrist, stepped back. “Your focus is slow and apt to fracture. You’ll be working on that. Come back tomorrow.”
He took her sword, swept his duster off the rail, then started toward the house.
“Thank you.”
Turning, he just stared at her a moment, a man with a sword at his side, another in his hand with the quieting sunlight washed over him.
“You’re welcome then.”
She called her dog, wound her way toward the gate while she admired the light in her hand.
Morena caught up with her. “I was going to light you home, as it grows darker in the woods as dusk comes.”
“Exactly. Look what I did!”
“Very pretty. I’ll have a walk with you, else Harken will pull me into the evening milking.”
“Walk to the cottage and have a glass of wine with me to celebrate my surviving another day.”
“I’ll take the wine, and happily. But you did more than survive this day.”
“Scared the crap out of myself.”
Bollocks bounded up the steps and through the tree ahead of them. In the woods on the other side, the light glowed.
“And me as well. You looked so fierce and furious, and the crack of power set my ears ringing. Jaysus, he flew, didn’t he?” Laughing, Morena tossed her hand, scattered pretty sparks of light. “A bird in a gale, he was. I love him like a brother, and for a moment I feared for him. But since he got no more than his nose bloodied, I’ll say he well deserved the flight.”
“It scared me,” Breen repeated. “It just shot out of me.”
“He meant it to. Oh, maybe the force of it took him by surprise, else he’d have blocked it at least a bit. He was hard on you, I know, and I didn’t like it. But I see his methods and his means now. You’ll have some bruises, I’ll wager.”
“That’s a bet you’d win, but I’m getting pretty good at healing them.”
“So Aisling said.” Waving both hands, Morena scattered more light.
“Show-off. I guess I don’t have to wonder how you’ll light your own way home.”
“You won’t, though I’m after going back to the farm after the wine.” She tossed her miles of luxurious hair. “And settling in bed with Harken.”
“Show-off,” Breen repeated, and made Morena laugh.
“Is there no one wishing for you in their bed back in Philadelphia?”
“No. Not for quite awhile now.”
“You’ve got good looks, a good brain and heart. I think the men in Philadelphia must be gits, one and all.”
“I was different there. I’m different here.”
“There are plenty who’d be happy to give you a roll if you want one. We should have a ceilidh, so you can look over your choices.”
“I think with writing, lessons with Nan, with Aisling, with Keegan—and recovering from lessons with Keegan—I don’t have much time for a roll.”
“Ah, sure and there’s always time for that.” With a shake of her head, Morena scattered more light as they came to the edge of the woods. “If you think otherwise, I have to say the men, or women if you like, in your Philadelphia aren’t very skilled in the matter.”
“You may be right, at least the men I ended up with.” As they crossed to the cottage, she looked down at the light in her hand. “He didn’t tell me how to put it out.”
“Will it away,” Morena said easily.
“Will it away.”
It took a moment, but Breen watched the ball dim, shrink, then vanish. “Hah! Wine! You pour that, I’ll feed the dog.”
“A good bargain.”
Breen glanced back as they went inside. “I’m not attracted to women, sexually.”
“As I’m not either, I wasn’t after planning to seduce you.”
On a laugh, Breen shook her head. “But it occurs to me I didn’t have any close girl friends—women friends—in Philadelphia.”
“Something wrong with them as well?”
“No, it was me.” A strange and lowering admission, she realized. “I had Marco, always. And Sally and Derrick and the people who worked at Sally’s.”
“Sally’s a girl’s name.”
“For Salvador in this case. And it occurs to me, the three people I’m closest to in Philadelphia are gay men.”
“Happy friends make a happier life.”
“They’re pretty happy, but I meant . . . They’re all attracted to men. Sally and Derrick are married.”
“Ah, aye, that’s one of the meanings of the word on this side. In Talamh, gay is just happy. And there’s no special word for what you mean as love and sex, well, they’re just love and sex.”
“That’s so . . . sensible.”
Breen filled the dog’s bowls while Morena poured wine.
“It’s nice, reconnecting with you. It’s nice having a glass of wine with another woman at the end of the day.”
“It is,” Morena agreed. “So we’ll have two.”
They had two, and after the wine, after Morena left, Breen practiced bringing the light, letting it go.
When she took Bollocks for his last walk of the night, she stood on the shale by the bay while he splashed. And, curious, she tossed the light over the water, watched it fly, then pulled it back.
She bobbled it the first few times, but she got better. With the light in her hand, she looked up at the moon.
She stood in Ireland now, she thought, and still she held light and power in her hand.
No, she would never be less again.
In Talamh, in a sky with two moons, Keegan rode his dragon. He’d intended to take to his bed and read until the day washed out of him. But he could sense—no matter how he tried to block—Harken and Morena pleasuring each other. And the two of them, he had reason to know, could go on till dawn if the mood was on them.
So he left them to it, flew toward the Capital. Not for politics or meetings or judgments—his mother had those well in hand for the moment.
He needed a woman, and knew where to find her.
To avoid questions, conversations, he had Cróga hover over a balcony of the castle keep. He dropped down lightly. Cróga would take himself off, and come again when needed for the flight home.
Through the billow of the thin curtains he saw her sitting at her grooming table. She drew a brush, slowly, through her long flaxen hair.
She wore white, as she often did, as thin as the curtains.
Shana, whose father served on the council, whose brother had fought by his side, met his eyes in her mirror as he parted the curtains.
“Good evening, Taoiseach. We weren’t expecting you back.” Born and raised in the Capital, she had the accent of the east and the city. And the posh manners of both. “Your mother will be pleased to see you.”
She rose and the light from the low fire simmered through the thin white gown, as they both knew she intended.
“I didn’t come to see my mother.”
“Me then.” She smiled, slow, her eyes tawny as a cat’s. “I’m honored. Will you have wine?”
“I will, and thank you.”
She moved like a dancer. Her Elfin blood meant she could move quickly, but she took her time now so he could look his fill.
“And how do things go in the west?” She poured ruby wine into two glass goblets.
“Well enough. The peace holds still.”
“We’re grateful. But I meant with Mairghread’s granddaughter. I’m told you’re training her personally.”
“I am, as Marg is teaching her the craft. She needs it.”
She handed him a glass. “I’m told she has great beauty. The fiery hair of her grandmother, the storm-cloud eyes of her grandsire.”
“But not the sort that draws my eye.”
A lie, one he hated to admit. He could still see the way she’d looked up at him, the globe of light in her hand, the joy and power alive on her face.
“But you think of her.” Pouting, Shana ran her fingers down the laces of his shirt.
“I have to think of her.” He tipped her face up. “But I’ve come to you.”
“Expecting me to open my arms and my bed to you. I might have been sharing them with another.”
“Happily you’re not.”
She laughed, sipped some wine before setting it aside. “Happily. I’ll always open them to you, Keegan, but a woman wants a bit of wooing first.”
“I’ve flown through the night for you, Shana. If that’s not wooing enough.” Knowing her, appreciating her, he flicked his wrist, and offered her a white rose.
“Ah now, is there a woman who could resist you?” She brushed the flower over her cheek as she looked up at him under her lashes. “I never have found the way, have I?”
She laid a hand on his cheek in turn. “So take off your sword, your boots, and the rest of it, and come into my arms, come into my bed. We’ll leave the west behind.”
He could take off his sword, and did. He could take off his boots and the rest. But he could never leave the west behind.
Because he knew her he accepted she’d never understand the why of it.
So he went into her arms, into her bed, and gave himself over to silken, perfumed skin, to the warm lips, the skilled hands of a woman who knew his needs and his body as he knew hers.
He closed off his mind, just for now, just for now, to everything else. Here were generous breasts to fill his hands, his mouth. Here a woman’s sighs and gasps to stir his blood. Her pulse quickened for him; her hair fell like fragrant curtains around him as she mounted him.
“I’ve missed you, Taoiseach.” Her head fell back with a moan as she took him in. “I’ve missed this.”
Her hips rocked, slow, torturous pleasure. He gripped them as he matched her pace, but lightly so as not to mark that soft white skin.
He watched her face, the stunning beauty of it, saw in her eyes when she went into herself. He let her ride, closed his eyes to center himself on only this, only her, to block out the images that wanted to intrude.
When she came, he rose up to her. He wrapped around her, driving himself to the end.
When she whispered his name, he cursed himself for wanting someone else.
He stayed with her another hour. He brought her wine, listened to her sleepy gossip, and stroked her hair until he felt her drift into sleep.
He rose quietly to dress again, felt some regret for leaving a warm, naked woman in a soft featherbed. And guilt—which sat poorly in him—for thinking of another woman.
“Won’t you stay?” She murmured it as she rose on an elbow. Her hair spilled over her breast as she reached out a hand. “Sleep with me, wake with me.”
“I have duties.”
“You have duties here as well.”
“I don’t forget them.” Whether it was guilt or regret, he couldn’t say, but he conjured another rose for her, laid it beside her. “I’ll come back when I can.”
She gave him the tart look that always appealed to him. “I may be otherwise occupied.”
He took her hand, kissed it. “Then it’s a fine thing you’re on the third floor so I can toss who occupies it off your balcony. Sleep now.”
He stepped back through the curtains. He’d already called the dragon in his mind, so Cróga circled the courtyard. When he glided down, Keegan stepped onto the balcony wall, swung onto his back.
Shana walked to the doors, parted the curtains, and watched him fly away.
One day, she thought, he would not fly away from her. One day he would not go back to the west, with its endless fields and sheep.
One day he would stay.
PART III
CHOICE
The difficulty in life is the choice.
—George Moore
To believe only possibilities is not faith,
but mere philosophy.
—Sir Thomas Browne
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
With Bollocks on one of his sniffing, wandering, racing back and forth routines, Breen walked through the woods toward the portal.
The bright, beautiful morning had lured her out to the patio to write in the garden with warm bay breezes and strong sunlight that turned the colors of everything vivid.
She’d nearly blown off her daily visit to Talamh and her grandmother for the simple luxury of basking in what promised to be a stellar afternoon.
But she’d promised, so that was that.
Still, she loved the learning and hoped to do more spell-casting. She’d even written her own, her first. A little twist on an illumination spell that conjured seven balls of light and floated them.
With Marg’s approval, she could try it out.
She didn’t want to spend her last two hours or so in Talamh swinging a damn sword or punching and kicking. She’d work with Keegan, but she wanted to spend that time on magicks. That focus he kept pushing on her.
Focus and control, she thought. She just had to convince him that training her in that area made more sense than slapping bespelled swords together.
As always, Bollocks bounded through the portal ahead of her. And if the kids or dogs were outside at the farm, she knew he’d race straight there.
Or, if he caught sight of them, he’d run around for a while with what she thought of as the Gang of Six—the group of kids from different tribes who raced the roads and roamed the woods.
The dark-skinned elf, Mina—definitely the leader—often approached Breen with questions about the other side. A child couldn’t go unaccompanied through the portals until they’d turned sixteen, but Mina already had plans to see everything she could see.
Bright, curious kids—and still kids, Breen thought, whether they flew or slid into trees or turned into a horse.
If they, or Aisling’s boys, were out and about, Bollocks would make his way to the cottage after a playdate.
She climbed onto the thick, curving branches, over the sturdy rocks. Out of sunlight and into chilly fog and dripping skies.
With sincere regrets for the change in the weather, she pulled up the hood of her jacket, zipped it. She took care maneuvering down the slope, then headed across the soaked grass.
The blanketing fog obscured the farm, and she could barely see the outline of the stone wall or the road beyond it. Definitely an indoor day, she decided as she climbed over the wall.
And one near a fire, as the damp turned the air raw.
She called for the dog, and stuck to the side of the road. No cars, of course, but someone could come galloping along, and with the fog swirling she could barely see two feet ahead.
She conjured a ball of light, thrilled with how quickly it formed in her hand. Mostly it bounced off the shifting curtains of fog, but it helped a little.
Those curtains blocked out sound as well as sight and added, for her, an appealing eeriness to what had become a familiar walk.
Like being inside a cloud, she thought, alone and quiet. And with a fire and a warm drink at the end of it.
She tossed the ball, caught it, to amuse herself, and sang, as it seemed to fit, “The Long and Winding Road.”
“It’s a lovely voice you have.”
The woman stepped out of the fog as if part of it. She wore a long gray cloak with the hood up and over her gray hair. When Breen jolted, nearly bobbled the ball of light, she smiled.
“Ah, I’ve startled you. I’m sorry for that. Such a mist we have this day. You’d be the daughter of he who was taoiseach, granddaughter of Mairghread. Breen, isn’t it? I’m Yseult, and pleased to meet you, even on such a day
.”
“Yes, I’m Breen.”
The woman carried a basket with the feathery tops of carrots spilling out. Her eyes, gray as her hair, held that easy smile.
“Do you live nearby?”
“Oh, a ways yet to go. I bartered some of my wares for the carrots at the O’Broin farm—what was yours once. I’ve never had the knack of growing them.”
“I’m just on my way to see my grandmother.”
“I’m sure she’s happy to have you near after all this time.” In the chilly air, Yseult drew her cloak tighter. “Might I walk with you, make use of your pretty light in all this gloom? I’d like to stop by and give greetings to my old friend.”
“Of course. You know my grandmother?” Breen began as they started to walk.
“Ah sure, everyone knows Mairghread, and we came up together you could say. And I knew your father since he was a babe in nappies. You’ve the look of them, the O’Ceallaighs. But for the eyes. Those you have from your sire and his before him.”
“Yes, so I’m told.”
“You spent many the year on the outside.” She wagged a finger at the ball. “Learning the craft from your da then?”
“No. I’ve only started to learn since coming here.”
“Well now, that’s a pity, isn’t it? Your sire had great power, from the O’Ceallaighs and from the god. Much he could have taught you. The power’s in you as well, and the blood of the god.”
“My grandmother’s teaching me.”
“To conjure little balls of light.”
Breen glanced over at the dismissive tone. The smile, that easy smile remained, a contrast. The eyes, she saw, weren’t gray, but nearly black.
Dark and deep.
“Light’s the core, the heart, the foundation.”
“Do you think so? When light is so easily snuffed out?” She plucked the ball from Breen’s hand, closed hers around it. When she reopened her hand, the light had vanished.
“Such a weak glow really, and easily killed. Black will always smother white, my girl. Dark will always defeat light. Learn this lesson well, for so it will always be.”
Not gray, Breen realized when her head spun a little. As she watched color flow into the hair under the hood. Red. Not a bright, fiery red, but deep, dark red. Like heart blood. The cloak turned black.