Chapter 19
AS SPRING SPREAD OVER MAYO, THROUGH THE GREEN FORESTS, over the lush hills, rains came soft and steady. Wildflowers rose and opened to drink, gardens burst to glorious life. In the fields lambs bleated, ducks plied the lough, while the forest filled with birdsong.
Iona planted flowers and vegetables and herbs with her cousins, scraped mud off her boots, put in long hours at the stables, long hours with the craft.
Bealtaine with its maypoles and songs came and went, and brought the solstice closer.
As the days lengthened, she often rose before dawn and worked well into the night, using the energy that fueled her to push harder.
And in the rain and the mud, she learned how to handle a sword.
Though she couldn’t imagine herself in an actual sword fight, she liked the way it felt in her hand. Liked the heft of it, and the fact that—small but mighty—she could strike and block.
She’d never be in Meara’s league. Her friend resembled an warrior even more with her hair braided back and a sword in her hand. But she learned—angles, footwork, maneuvers.
Within the thin veil Branna conjured she sliced and parried while Meara, relentless, drove her back. While the swords sang and Meara shouted insults or instructions, Branna sat on a garden bench like some exotic housewife, calmly peeling potatoes for dinner.
“Put your shoulder into it!”
“I am!” Winded, and seriously starting to ache, Iona shifted her weight, tried to advance.
“Come at me, for feck’s sake. I could slice off your limbs like you were Monty Python’s Black Knight.”
“It’s only a flesh wound.” Giggles caught her, distracted her, and Meara moved in like a demon.
“Mind the . . .” Branna sighed hugely as Iona lost her footing and fell backward into a massive spread of wild blue lobelia.
“Ah well.”
“Ouch. Sorry.”
“You’ve got the basics well enough.” Sheathing her sword, Meara held a hand down to help pull Iona to her feet. “And you take your lumps like a woman. You’ve good speed and agility, and endurance enough. But you’ve no killer in the blood, and so you’ll always be bested.”
Iona rubbed her butt. “I never planned on killing anyone.”
“Plans change,” Branna pointed out. “Fix those flowers now, as it’s your rump that crushed them.”
“Oh yeah.” Iona turned back to them, considered.
“No.” Branna snapped her fingers. “Don’t stop and think, just do.”
“I’m just catching my breath.”
“You may not have time for that. Sword, magick, a blend of both. And wit to tie them together. Just do.”
So she held out her hands in instinct rather than plan. The crushed blue flowers plumped.
“I gave them a little boost while I was at it.”
“So I see.” With a faint smile, Branna plied her paring knife.
“I could use a shower and a beer. No, beer first.”
“We’ll go again, then a beer,” Meara told her. “Don’t hold back this time. Didn’t Branna tell you she’d charmed the blades as dull as our first form science teacher? Remember her, Branna?”
“To my sorrow, I do. Miss Kenny, who could out-sister the sisters for the hard eye and bore your brain to liquid between your ears.”
“I heard she moved to Donegal and married a fishmonger.”
“I pity him.” Branna rose with her bowl of potatoes, her compost bucket of peels. “I’ll put these on and fetch the beer while the two of you hack at each other.”
Stalling, as she really did need to catch her breath, Iona studied her sword. “You don’t really think we’ll use these, this way, against Cabhan.”
“There’s no telling, is there? And as I don’t have what you do, this may be what I’ll use and need should the time come.”
“Why don’t you sound scared?”
“I’ve known of the legend all my life, and the hard fact of it since I’ve known Branna, which seems forever. That’s the one part. And on the other . . .” Meara looked around her, the new plantings, those from past years spreading and spearing, the woods beyond in their rainy evening gloom.
“It doesn’t seem real, does it? That come the solstice we’ll try to end all this by whatever means we can.
Blood and magick, blade and fang. It’s not life, but a story.
And yet it is. I’m caught up in that, I think.
Above that, when it comes, I’ll be with people I trust more than any others. So, the fear’s not there. Yet.”
“I wish it were now. Some nights I think, let it be tomorrow, so it can be over. Then in the morning, I think, thank God it’s not today, so I have another day. Not just to practice, to learn, but—”
“To live.”
“To live, to be here. To be a part of all this. To ride Alastar, to work, to see my cousins, and you and . . .”
“Boyle.”
Iona shrugged, almost managed casual. “I like seeing him. I think we’ve been dealing with everything really well. Being friends was the right answer.”
“Oh bollocks. You’re friends right enough, but that’ll never be all. The pair of you send out so much haze that’s sex and lust and emotion I don’t know how any of us see straight.”
“I’m not sending out anything. Am I?”
“Sure you are. I don’t suppose a woman in love can help it.
But plenty’s coming from his direction.” Meara threw up her hands at the thought of so many she cared about refusing to reach for what they wanted most. “Iona, the man brought you flowers, and I’m thinking the only woman he’s carried bouquets to might be his ma or his granny.
And aren’t the drinks you like stocked in the little fridge? ”
“Ah, now that you mention it—”
“Who do you think’s seen to that? And who brought you a toasted sandwich when you couldn’t stop for lunch just yesterday?”
“He’d do the same for anyone.”
Meara could only roll her eyes skyward. “He did it for you. And didn’t I hear him with my own ears tell you only days ago that the blue sweater you wore to the pub looked fine on you? And who made sure you sat out of the draft of the door while we were there?”
“I . . . didn’t notice.”
“Because you’re trying so hard not to notice. You’re putting everything you can into your work, your practice so you don’t have much left to think of him, because it’s hard for you. At the same time you’ve blinded yourself to the wondrous fact that the man’s besotted. He’s wooing you.”
“He is not.” The heart she’d worked so hard to steady stumbled a little. “He is?”
“Try to notice,” Meara advised. “Now come at me like you mean it.” She drew her sword. “And earn that beer.”
* * *
SHE LET HERSELF NOTICE, A LITTLE, THE NEXT DAY. She knew she had a habit of letting hope overrule everything else. All logic, all sense and self-preservation could, and usually did, fizzle under the bright light of hope.
Not this time, she warned herself. Too much at stake. But she could notice, a little, if there was something to notice.
He brought Alastar to her, and that was hard not to notice. Boyle rode him over rather than drive the horse in the trailer Alastar detested.
“I thought you might want him today, as you’ve three guideds on your slate.”
“I always want him.” She cupped Alastar’s face, rubbed cheeks with him. And sent Boyle a sidelong glance. “Thanks for thinking of it.”
“Oh well, it’s no trouble, and he’s needing the exercise. I’ve a mind to switch out two of the horses for tomorrow, so I’ll be riding Caesar over to the stables tonight if you’re wanting to ride this one back. I’ll drive you home from there if it suits you.”
“Sounds good.”
Nothing in his tone, she thought, but friendship, as agreed. And yet . . . “I’ll put him in the paddock until I’ve checked in the first group.”
She took the reins, rolled her aching right shoulder, gave it an absent rub.
“Are you hurt?”
“What? No. Just sore. Sword arm,” she said, a little cocky, brandishing her arm. “Meara’s a brute.”
“She’s a fierce one. Why haven’t you fixed it? Or had Connor do it?”
“Because it serves to remind me not to drop my guard.”
She led the horse away, determined not to look back. But she felt his eyes on her. And wasn’t that interesting enough to let just a little hope eke through?
He didn’t stint on the work he assigned. As a result, she stayed busy—body and mind—until midafternoon when he shifted her balance again by bringing her a bottle of the Coke she preferred.
“Thanks.”
“It seemed you should wet the throat you must’ve worked dry calling out corrections to the student you had in the ring.”
“She’s really young.” Grateful, Iona took a long sip. “And she likes the idea of riding. She just doesn’t put much into learning how. I think she mostly likes the outfits she gets to wear, and how she looks on a horse.”
“Her parents are divorcing it seems.”
“Oh, that’s rough. She’s only eight.”
“It’s been coming on awhile, from what I hear. And it seems their way of compensating is to indulge her and her brother. Her with the fancy boots and riding pants and such and him with video games and sports jerseys.”
“It won’t work.”
“Likely not, no. I wonder if you have a minute to take a look at our Spud. He’s been off his feed today. I thought before I call the vet you could take a pass at him.”
“I’ll go right now. I haven’t worked with him today,” she said as she hurried out of the ring. “Barely saw him this morning.”
She worked her way down the stalls, Boyle beside her, and stopped at Spud’s.
The horse just gave her a sorrowful look as he moved restlessly in the stall.
“Don’t feel good today, do you?” She murmured it as she opened the stall door. “Let’s have a look.”
In answer he kicked at his belly.
“That’s where it hurts, huh?” Gently, gently, she ran her hands over him, down and around his belly.
And closing her eyes, calming her mind, she let herself see, let herself feel.
“It’s not colic, so that’s lucky. And not an ulcer. But it’s uncomfortable, isn’t it, baby? And you can’t do what you like best. Eat.”
“I couldn’t even tempt him with a potato, his favorite.”
“He’s not sweating,” she added. “Has he been rolling around on the floor?”
“No. Just barely touched his feed.”