Blood Magick

by Roberts, Nora

  But she had a task yet to face here.

  She gathered what she needed—bowl, candle, book, the herbs and stones. And with a glance at her little boy, felt both pride and regret.

  “It is time for him, for this,” she told Eoghan.

  Understanding, he kissed her forehead. “I’ll take Sorcha up. It’s time she was abed.”

  Nodding, she turned to Brin, called him.

  “I’m not tired. Why can’t we leave now and sleep under the stars?”

  “We leave on the morrow, but first there are things we must do, you and I.”

  She sat, opened her arms. “First, come sit with me. My boy,” she murmured, when he crawled onto her lap. “My heart. You know what I am.”

  “Ma,” he said and cuddled into her.

  “I am, but you know, as I’ve never hidden it from you, what I am besides. Dark witch, keeper of magicks, daughter of Sorcha and Daithi. This is my blood. This is your blood as well. See the candle?”

  “You made the candle. Ma’s make the candles and bake the cakes, and Da’s ride the horses.”

  “Is that the way of it?” She laughed, and decided she’d let him have that illusion for a little while more. “Well, it’s true enough I made the candle. See the wick, Brin? The wick is cold and without light. See the candle, Brin, see the wick. See the light and flame, the tiny flame, and the heat, the light to be. You have the light in you, the flame in you. See the wick, Brin.”

  She crooned it to him, over and over, felt his energy begin to settle, his thoughts begin to join with her.

  “The light is power. The power is light. In you, of you, through you. Your blood, my blood, our blood, your light, my light, our light. Feel what lives in you, what waits in you. See the wick, it waits for your light. For your power. Bring it. Let it rise, slow, slow, gentle and clean. Reach for it, for it belongs to you. Reach, touch, rise. Bring the light.”

  The wick sparked, died away, sparked again, then burned true.

  Brannaugh pressed a kiss to the top of his head. There, she thought, there, the first learned. And her boy would never be just a child again.

  Joy and sorrow, forever entwined.

  “That is well done.”

  He turned his face up, smiled at her. “Can I do another?”

  “Aye,” she said, kissed him again. “But heed me now, and well, for there is more to learn, more to know. And the first you must know, must heed, must vow is you harm none with what you are, what you have. Your gift, Brin? An’ it harm none. Swear this to me, to yourself, to all who’ve come before, all who will come after.”

  She lifted her athame, used it on her palm. “A blood oath we make. Mother to son, son to mother, witch to witch.”

  Solemn-eyed, he held out his hand to her, blinked at the quick pain when she nicked it.

  “An’ it harm none,” he said when she took his hand, mixed her blood with his.

  “An’ it harm none,” she repeated, then gathered him close, kissed the little hurt, healed it. “Now, you may do another candle. And after, together, we will make charms, for protection. For you, for your sister, for your father.”

  “What of you, Ma?”

  She touched her pendant. “I have what I need.”

  • • •

  IN THE MORNING MISTS, SHE CLIMBED ONTO THE WAGON, her little girl bundled at her side. She looked at her boy, so flushed with delight in the saddle in front of his father. She looked at her sister, fair and quiet astride Alastar; her brother, their grandfather’s sword at his side, tall and straight on the horse he called Mithra. And Gealbhan steady and waiting on the pretty mare Alastar had sired three summers before.

  She clucked to Gealbhan’s old plow horse, and with Brin letting out a whoop, began. She looked back once, just once at the house she’d come to love, asked herself if she would ever see it again.

  Then, she looked ahead.

  A healer found welcome wherever she went—as did a harpist. Though the baby heavy in her belly was often restless, she and her family found shelter and hospitality along the wild way.

  Eoghan made music, she or Teagan or Eamon offered salves or potions to the ailing or the injured. Gealbhan offered his strong back and calloused hands.

  One fine night they slept under the stars as Brin so wished, and there was comfort in knowing the hound, the hawk, the horse guarded what was hers.

  They met no trouble along the way, but then she knew the word had gone about. The Dark Witches, all three, journeyed through Clare and on to Galway.

  “The word would reach Cabhan as well,” Eamon said as they paused in their travels to rest the horses, to let the children run free for a time.

  She sat between him and Teagan while Gealbhan and Eoghan watered the horses and Eamon dropped a line into the water.

  “We’re stronger than we were,” Teagan reminded him. “We journeyed south as children. We go north children no more.”

  “He worries.” Brannaugh stroked her belly. “As you and I carry more than we did.”

  “I don’t doubt your power or your will.”

  “And still you worry.”

  “I wonder if it must be now,” Eamon admitted, “even knowing it must be now. I feel it as both of you, and yet would be easier if there was time for both of you to have proper lyings-in before we face what we must face.”

  “What’s meant is meant, but in truth I’m glad we’ll break our journey for a day or so with our cousins. And by all the gods I’ll be happy to have a day off that bloody wagon.”

  “I’m dreaming of Ailish’s honey cakes, for no one has a finer hand with them.”

  “Dreaming with his belly,” Teagan said.

  “A man needs to eat. Hah!” He pulled up the line, and the wriggling fish who’d taken the hook. “And so we will.”

  “You’ll need more than one,” Brannaugh said, and reminded them all of those same words their mother spoke on a fine and happy day on the river at home.

  They left the rugged wilds of Clare, pushed by fierce winds, sudden driving rains. They rode through the green hills of Galway, by fields of bleating sheep, by cottages where smoke puffed from chimneys. Roibeard winged ahead, under and through layers of clouds that turned the sky into a soft gray sea.

  The children napped in the wagon, tucked in among the bundles, so Kathel sat beside Brannaugh, ever alert.

  “There are more cottages than I remember.” Teagan rode beside her on the tireless Alastar.

  “The years pass.”

  “It’s good land here—I can all but hear Gealbhan thinking it.”

  “Would you plant yourself here then? Does it speak to you?”

  “It does. But so does our cabin in the woods in Clare. And still, the closer we come to home, the more I ache for it. We had to put that aside for so long, all of us, but now . . . Do you feel it, Brannaugh? That call to home?”

  “Aye.”

  “Are you afraid?”

  “Aye. Of what’s to come, but more of failing.”

  “We won’t.” At Brannaugh’s sharp look, Teagan shook her head. “No, I’ve had no vision, but only a certainty. One that grows stronger as we come closer to home. We won’t fail, for light will always beat the dark, though it take a thousand years.”

  “You sound like her,” Brannaugh murmured. “Like our mother.”

  “She’s in all of us, so we won’t fail. Oh, look, Brannaugh! That tree there with the twisted branches. It’s the very one Eamon told our cousin Mabh came to life each full moon, to scare her. We’re nearly to Ailish’s farm. We’re all but there.”

  “Go on, ride ahead.”

  Her face lit so she might’ve been a child again, Teagan tossed back her head and laughed. “So I will.”

  She rode to her husband, let out a fresh laugh, then set off in a gallop. Beside Brannaugh, Kathel whined, quivered.

  “Go on then.” Brannaugh gave him a stroke.

  He leaped out of the wagon, raced behind the horse with the hawk flying above them.

 
; It was a homecoming, for they’d lived on the farm for five years. Brannaugh found it as tidy as ever, with new outbuildings, a new paddock where young horses danced.

  She saw a young boy with bright hair all but wrapped around Kathel. And knew when the boy smiled at her, he was Lughaidh, the youngest and last of her cousin’s brood.

  Ailish herself rushed over to the wagon. She’d grown a bit rounder, and streaks of gray touched her own fair hair. But her eyes were as lively and young as ever.

  “Brannaugh! Oh look at our Brannaugh! Seamus, come over and help your cousin down from the wagon.”

  “I’m fine.” Brannaugh clambered down herself, embraced her cousin. “Oh, oh, it does my heart good to see you again.”

  “And mine, seeing you. Oh, you’re a beauty, as ever. So like your mother. And here’s our Eamon, so handsome. My cousins, three, come back as you said you would. I’ve sent the twins off to get Bardan from the field, and Seamus, you run over and tell Mabh her cousins are here.”

  Teary-eyed, she embraced Brannaugh again. “Mabh and her man have their own cottage, just across the way. She’s near ready to birth her first. I’m to be a granny! Oh, I can’t stop my tongue from wagging. It’s Eoghan, aye? And Teagan’s Gealbhan. Welcome, welcome all of you. But where are your children?”

  “Asleep in the wagon.”

  Nothing would do but for Ailish to gather them up, to ply them with the honey cakes Eamon remembered so fondly. Then Conall, who’d been but a babe in arms when last she’d seen him, took her children off to see a new litter of puppies.

  “They’ll be fine, my word on it,” Ailish said as she poured out tea. “He’s a good lad, is Conall—one you helped bring into the world. We’ll let the men see to the horses and that, and you’ll both take your ease awhile.”

  “Praise be.” Brannaugh sipped the tea, let it and the fire warm her, soothe her. “I’m sitting in a chair that’s not moving.”

  “Eat. You’ve another in you who needs the food as well.”

  “I’m starving all the day and half the night. Teagan’s not as hungry—yet. But she will be.”

  “Oh, are you carrying?” Delight glowed on her face as Ailish stopped her fussing with tea, laid her hands over her own heart. “My sweet little Teagan, to be a mother. The years, where do they go? You were but a babe yourself. Will you stay? Will you stay until your time comes?” she asked Brannaugh. “It’s still a distance to Mayo, and you’re close. I can see you’re close.”

  “A day or two only, and so grateful for it. The babe will be born in Mayo. It’s meant. It’s what must be.”

  “Must it?” Ailish gripped Brannaugh’s hand, then Teagan’s in turn. “Must it? You’ve made your lives in Clare. You’re women, mothers. Must you go back to the dark that waits?”

  “We’re women, and mothers, and more. We can turn our back on none of it. But don’t fret, cousin. Don’t think of it. We have today, with tea and cakes and family.”

  “We will come back again.” When they looked at her, Teagan pressed a hand to her heart. “I feel it so strong. We will come back again. Believe that. Believe in us. I think faith only makes us stronger.”

  “If that’s so, you’ll have all of mine.”

  They had music and feasting and family. And for a night and a day peace. Still Brannaugh found herself restless. Though her man slept in the bed Ailish had provided them, she sat by the fire.

  Ailish came in, wearing her night-robes and a thick shawl.

  “You need some of the tea you always made for me when I was so close to the end, and the babe so heavy in me I couldn’t sleep.”

  “I look for her in the fire and smoke,” Brannaugh murmured. “I can’t help the looking, I miss her so. More as we near home. I miss my father; it’s an ache. But my mother is a kind of grieving that won’t end.”

  “I know it.” Ailish sat beside her. “Does she come to you?”

  “In dreams. There are moments, but only moments. I long to hear her voice, to have her tell me I’m doing right. That I’m doing what she’d want of me.”

  “Oh, my love, you are. You are. Do you remember the day you left us?”

  “I do. I hurt you by leaving.”

  “Leaving always hurts, but it was what was right—I’ve come to know it. Before you left you told me of Lughaidh, the babe I carried. You said he must be the last, for neither I nor a babe would live through another birthing. And you gave me a potion to drink, every moon until the bottle was empty. So there would be no more children for me. It grieved me.”

  “I know.” And knew it more poignantly now that she had her own children. “You are the best of mothers, and were one to me.”

  “I would not have lived to see my children grown, to see my oldest girl ripe with her own child. To see, as you told me, Lughaidh, so bright and sweet, with a voice—as you said—like an angel.”

  Nodding, Ailish studied the fire in turn, as if seeing that day again in the smoke and flame. “You laid protection over me and mine, gave me the years I might not have had. You are what she would want. Even as it grieves me that you will go, you will face Cabhan, I know you must. Never doubt she is proud of you. Never doubt, Brannaugh.”

  “You comfort me, Ailish.”

  “I will have faith, as Teagan asked. Every night I will light a candle. I will light it with the little magick I have so that it shines for you, for Teagan, for Eamon.”

  “I know you fear the power.”

  “It’s my blood as well. You are mine as you were hers. This I will do, every sunset, and in the small light I’ll put my faith. Know it burns for you and yours. Know that, and be safe.”

  “We will come back. In that I will have faith. We will come back, and you will hold the child now inside me.”

  • • •

  THEY JOURNEYED ON, WITH A LITTLE SPOTTED PUP GIVEN the children with much ceremony, and with promises for a longer visit when they returned.

  The air grew colder, the wind brisk.

  More than once she heard Cabhan’s voice, sly and seductive, trailing on that wind.

  I wait.

  She would see Teagan look out over the hills, or Eamon rubbing his fingers over his pendant—and know they heard as well.

  When the hawk veered off, and Alastar strained to follow, Kathel leaped out of the wagon, trotted off on a fork in the road.

  “It’s not the way.” Eoghan pulled his horse up by the wagon. “We would make Ashford by tomorrow, but that is not the way.”

  “No, not the way to Ashford, but the way we must go. Trust the guides, Eoghan. There’s something we must do first. I feel it.”

  Eamon drew up on the other side. “Near home,” he said. “All but near enough to taste. But we’re called.”

  “Aye, we’re called. So we answer.” She reached out, touched her husband’s arm. “We must.”

  “Then we will.”

  She didn’t know the way, yet she did. With her mind linked with the hound’s she knew the road, the turns, the hills. And oh, she felt him reaching out, that darkness, hungry and eager to take what she was, and more.

  The hazy sun slid down toward the western hills, but still they rode. Her back ached from the hours in the wagon, and a thirst rose up in her. But they rode.

  She saw the shadow of it in the oncoming dark—the rise of it with fields around. A place of worship, she thought, she could feel that.

  And a place of power.

  She stopped the wagon, breathed the air.

  “He can’t get through. It’s too strong for him to push through.”

  “Something here,” Eamon murmured.

  “Something bright,” Teagan said. “Strong and bright. And old.”

  “Before us.” Grateful for the help, Brannaugh let her husband lift her from the wagon. “Before our mother. Before any time we know.”

  “A church.” Gealbhan reached up to lift Teagan from the saddle. “But no one’s here.”

  “They’re here.” Weary, Teagan leaned against him. “Thos
e who came before us, those who sanctified this ground. They will not let him pass. This is a holy place.”

  “Tonight, this is ours.” Brannaugh stepped forward, lifted her hands. “Gods of light, goddesses bright, we call to you across the night. By the power you have given, by the purpose we are driven, we seek your blessing. A night within your walls before whatever fates befall, this respite, this resting. We are Sorcha’s three. Dark witches come to thee. By thy will, so mote it be.”

  Light bloomed like sun, shining through the windows, the doors that opened with a wind like breath. And warmth poured out.

  “We are welcome here.” Smiling, she lifted her daughter, and all the fatigue from the long journey fell away. “We are welcome.”

  Brannaugh settled the children to sleep on pallets she made on the floor of the church. And was grateful to find both of them too weary to whine or argue, for her momentary energy already flagged.

  “Do you hear them?” Eamon whispered.

  “Even I hear them.” Eoghan scanned the church, the stone walls, the wooden seats. “They sing.”

  “Aye.” Gealbhan picked up the pup to soothe it. “Soft, lovely. As angels or gods might sing. This is a holy place.”

  “It offers more than sanctuary for the night.” A hand pressed to her back, Brannaugh rose. “It offers the blessing, and the light. We were called by those who’ve come before us, to this place, on this night.”

  Teagan touched her fingers lightly, reverently, to the altar. “Built by a king for a kindness given. A promise kept. Built here near a pilgrim’s walk. This abbey called Ballintubber.”

  She lifted her hands, smiled. “This much I see.” She turned to her husband. “Aye, this is a holy place, and we’ll seek the blessing of those who called us.”

  “Like the king,” Brannaugh said, “we have a promise to keep. Eoghan, my love, would you fetch me my mother’s book?”

  “I will, aye—if you will sit. Just sit, Brannaugh. You’re too pale.”

  “I’m weary, in truth, but I promise you this must be done, and we will all be better for it. Teagan—”