Chapter 2
FOR A WEEK, THEN TWO, SHE WAS STRONG, AND HER POWER HELD. Cabhan battered at it, he pushed, he slithered, but she held him back.
The blackthorn bloomed, and the snowdrops, and the light turned more toward spring than winter.
Each night Sorcha watched for Daithi in the fire. When she could, she spoke to him, risked sending her spirit to him to bring back his scent, his voice, his touch—and to leave hers with him.
So to strengthen them both.
She told him nothing of Cabhan. The magicks were her world. His sword, his fist, even his warrior’s heart could not defeat such as Cabhan. The cabin, hers before she’d taken Daithi as her man, was hers to defend. The children they’d made together, hers to protect.
And still she counted down the days to Bealtaine, to the day she would see him riding home again.
Her children thrived, and they learned. Some voice in her head urged her to teach them all she could as quickly as she could. She didn’t question it.
She spent hours at night in the light of the tallow and the fire writing out her spells, her recipes, even her thoughts. And when she heard the howl of the wolf or the beat of the wind, she ignored it.
Twice she was called to the castle for a healing, and took her children so they could play with the other youths, so to keep them close, and to let them see the respect afforded the Dark Witch.
For the name and all it held would be their legacy.
But each time they journeyed home, she needed a potion to revive the strength sapped from the healing magicks she dispensed to those in need.
Though she yearned for her man, and for the health she feared would never be fully hers again, she schooled her children daily in the craft. She stood back when Eamon called to Roibeard—more his than hers now, as it should be. Watched with pride as her baby rode Alastar, as fierce as any warrior.
And knew, with both pride and sorrow, how often Brannaugh and her faithful Kathel patrolled the woods.
The gift was there, but so was childhood. She made certain there was music, and games, and as much innocence as she could preserve.
They had visitors, those who came for charms, for salves, who sought answers to questions, who hoped for love or fortune. She helped those she could, took their offerings. And watched the road, always watched the road—though she knew her love was still weeks from home.
She took them out on the river in the little boat their father had built on a day of easy winds when the sky held more blue than gray.
“They say witches can’t travel over water,” Eamon announced.
“Is that what they say then?” Sorcha laughed, lifted her face to the breeze. “Yet here we are, sailing fine and true.”
“It’s Donal who says it—from the castle.”
“Saying it, even believing it, doesn’t make it truth.”
“Eamon made a frog fly for Donal. It was like boasting.”
Eamon gave his younger sister a dark look, would’ve added a poke or pinch if his mother hadn’t been watching.
“Flying frogs might be fun, but it isn’t wise to spend your magick for amusements.”
“It was practice.”
“You might practice catching us some fish for supper. Not that way,” Sorcha warned as her son lifted his hands over the water.
“Magick isn’t every answer. A body must know how to fend for himself without it as well.
A gift should never be squandered on what you can do with your wit and your hands or your back. ”
“I like to fish.”
“I don’t.” Brannaugh brooded as the little boat plied the river. “You sit and sit and wait and wait. I’d rather hunt. Then you have the woods, and we could have rabbit for dinner.”
“Tomorrow’s as good as today for that. We’ll look for fish tonight if your brother has luck and skill. And perhaps a potato pie.”
Bored, Brannaugh handed her line to her sister, and gazed out over the water to the castle with its great stone walls.
“Did you not want to live there, Ma? I heard the women talking. They said we were all welcome.”
“We have our home, and though it was just a hut once, it’s stood longer than those walls. It stood when the O’Connors ruled, before the House of Burke. Kings and princes come and go, m’inion, but home is always.”
“I like the look of it, so grand and tall, but I like our woods better.” She leaned her head on her mother’s arm a moment. “Could the Burkes have taken our home?”
“They could have tried, but they were wise to respect magick. We have no fight with them, nor they with us.”
“If they did, Da would fight them. And so would I.” She slid her gaze toward her mother. “Dervla from the castle told me Cabhan was banished.”
“That you knew already.”
“Aye, but she said he comes back, and he lies with women. He whispers in their ear and they think he’s their lawful husband.
But in the morning, they know. They weep.
She said you gave the women charms to keep him away, but .
. . he lured one of the kitchen maids away, into the bog. No one can find her.”
She knew of it, just as she knew the kitchen maid would never be found. “He toys with them, and preys on the weak to feed himself. His power is black and cold. The light and the fire will always defeat him.”
“But he comes back. He scratches at the windows and doors.”
“He can’t enter.” But she felt a chill through her blood.
Just then Eamon let out a shout, and when he yanked up his line, a fish flashed silver in the sunlight.
“Luck and skill,” Sorcha said with a laugh as she grabbed the net.
“I want to catch one.” Teagan leaned eagerly over the water as if searching for a likely fish.
“We’ll hope you do, as we’ll need more than one, even such a fine one. It’s good work, Eamon.”
They caught three more, and if she helped her baby a bit, the magick was for love.
She rowed them back with the sun sparkling, the breeze dancing, and the air full of her children’s voices.
A good, fine day, she thought, and spring so close she could almost taste it.
“Run on home then, Eamon, and clean those fish. You can get the potatoes started, Brannaugh, and I’ll see to the boat.”
“I’ll stay with you.” Teagan snuck her hand into her mother’s. “I can help.”
“That you can, as we’ll need to fetch some water from the stream.”
“Do fish like us to catch and eat them?”
“I can’t say they do, but it’s their purpose.”
“Why?”
And why, Sorcha thought as she secured the boat, had been Teagan’s first word. “Didn’t the powers put the fish in the water, and give us the wit to make the nets and lines?”
“But they must like swimming more than the fire.”
“I expect so. So we should be mindful and grateful when we eat.”
“What if we didn’t catch and eat them?”
“We’d be hungry more often than not.”
“Do they talk under the water?”
“Well now, I’ve never had a conversation with a fish. Here now.” Sorcha pulled Teagan’s cloak more closely around her. “It’s getting cold.” She glanced up, saw the clouds rolling over the sun. “We may have a storm tonight. Best get home.”
As she straightened, came the fog. Gray and dirty, it slunk like a snake over the ground and smothered the sparkle of the day.
Not a storm coming, Sorcha realized. The threat was here already.
She pushed Teagan behind her as Cabhan rose out of the fog.
He wore black picked through with silver like stars against a midnight sky. His hair waved to his shoulders, an ebony frame for his hard and beautiful face. His eyes, dark as a gypsy’s heart, held both power and pleasure as he scraped them over Sorcha.
She felt them, like bold hands on her skin.
Around his neck he wore a large silver pendant shaped like a sun with a fat jewel—a glinting red eye—in its center. And this was new, she thought, and sensed its black power.
“My lady,” he said, and bowed to her.
“You have no welcome here.”
“I walk where I will. And what do I see but a woman and her small, pretty child alone. Treats for brigands and wolves. You have no man to see you safe, Sorcha the Dark. I will escort you.”
“I see myself safe. Begone, Cabhan. You waste your time and powers here. I will never submit to such as you.”
“But you will submit. Joining with me is your destiny. I’ve seen it in the glass.”
“You see lies and desires, not truth or destiny.”
He only smiled, and like his voice, his smile held seduction. “Together we’ll rule this land, and any others we wish. You will wear fine cloth in bright colors and drape your skin in jewels.”
He swirled his hands. Teagan gasped when she saw her mother wearing the rich red of royalty, the sparkle of jewels, and a gold crown studded with them.
Just as quickly, Sorcha flicked a wrist and was once again draped in her simple black wool. “I have no need, no wish for your colors and shine. Leave me and mine, or you will feel my wrath.”
But he laughed, the sound rolling from him in smooth and terrible delight. “Is it a wonder, my heart, that I want none but you? Your fire, your beauty, your power, all meant to be mine.”
“I am Daithi’s woman, and will ever be.”
With a grunt of disgust, Cabhan flicked his fingers.
“Daithi cares more for his raids, his games, his petty little wars than for you or the whelps you bore him. How many times has the moon waxed and waned since he last shared your bed? You grow cold in the night, Sorcha. I feel it. I will show you pleasures you’ve never known.
And I will make you more than you are. I will make you a goddess. ”
Fear tried to crawl into her like the fog crawled over the ground. “I would die by my own hand before being bedded by you. You only crave more power.”
“And you’re a fool not to. Together we will crush all who stand against us, live as gods, be as gods. And for this I will give you what your heart most desires.”
“You don’t know my heart.”
“A babe in your belly to replace the loss. My son, born of you. More powerful than any has known before or will again.”
Grief for the loss struck, and fear, a terrible fear for the tiny seed of want in her for what he offered. A life growing in her, strong and real.