Epilogue
Saoirse
Once there was an age of mortals who longed for power and became the Slaughtered Ones.
“Odhrán, the farmer, whose garden was abundant and who left offerings for the deer.
“Eabha, the midwife, who spun fine lace veils for marriage, births, deaths, and memory of them all.
“Clodagh, the healer, with an herb for most ailments, a cane to distribute justice, a soft hand to offer trust.
“Róisín, the weaver, whose tapestries, quilts, and gowns captured history and life.
“Eamon, the blacksmith, who crafted shoes for horses and tools to build good homes.
“Maira, the warrior, who defended her family and sparred on horseback with a fiery laugh.
“Muireal, the seer, who studied the stars and spoke their language to the world.
“We tell their story each solstice, as the Crescent is born anew.”
“Mam, I don’t want to hear about the gods. I want to hear about the pirates!”
A warm foot nestles itself against my belly as Gráinne tucks herself back into bed, drawing up the colorful quilts mapped with stars and constellations Brona always fusses are hopelessly incorrect. I catch that foot and drag her under the blankets, laughing when she shrieks.
“You are a pirate, my love. Look at you, stealing more hours right now when you ought to be in bed.”
“I am in bed.”
“Can’t reason with that logic, now, can you?”
A voice like sea salt and silk drifts through the open door just before Faolan walks in, a bundle of blankets tucked in his arm with a wee face peeking out. “Are you telling her the boring story again, Trouble?”
“I’m telling her the important one. Our history.”
“Ach, it’s no wonder the girl’s having trouble sleeping.
Budge over, you two.” Faolan sinks onto the edge of the bed, one hand cradling the back of the baby’s head.
Rings gleam from the infant’s dark curls, most of them gold, though one is made of ribbon feathered with our daughter’s eclectic skills.
“Right. Shall I tell you about the wolves and the sea monster—”
“No.” I lean over, tracing Cillian’s silken cheek with my thumb. “That will give her nightmares.”
“I’ll be fine!”
“Your mother’s right.” Faolan heaves a world-weary sigh, though his eyes are gleaming as he does it. “Sea monsters are strictly for nap time; that way the sun’s still out to chase the beasties away. Fine, then: a history.”
Gráinne groans, flopping back into her pillow in a cloud of reddish-brown curls.
“It’s a good story! I leapt into a bloody whirlpool for it—tossed a bunch of old tools in the water, confronted a wolf made of barmy blue light. This is top-tier pub fare, mind you.”
“Bo-ring.”
Faolan snorts as I curl back on my side around Gráinne: all legs these days, and all energy too. “Would it help if I told you we slayed adversaries?”
Gráinne stops. Parts her curls to look between us.
“Your own mother,” Faolan says, dropping his voice like it’s a secret, “almost leapt into the sea after me. She felled the Stone King to do it, too.”
Her eyes go massively wide: gray shifting to brown, greens to blue.
“This is not the way to calm her down,” I murmur, and kiss the edge of our daughter’s eye. “How about a song instead?”
“Oh, I’ve plenty of those! ‘There once was a girl with ocean eyes, she was quite wee and broad in the—’ ”
“ ‘Daughter of the Knowing Sea. Gaze sworn long ago to me. Unbound soul, your wants shall free the Isle of the Lost.’ ”
Faolan tips me a wink but picks up the tune as well, one arm staying beneath Cillian’s snug, sleeping form as the other drapes over our daughter to link his fingers with mine.
We’ve changed some of the words, just like we changed the world around us.
It took time to heal the wounds magic made here—time for the poison flowers and Bruidin trees to die out.
Time for new wonders to emerge, abundant on the islands and in the channels between: creatures we could’ve only dreamed of, lost but for wanting to call them back.
Kiara ascended to Ríona Ard on the winter solstice that year, as new rulers were sought out for the Isle of Unbound Earth to replace Maccus, Frozen Hearth after Tadgh stepped down, and Ashen Flame to watch it in Kiara’s stead.
My brother returned to our home island, to make something of it without the mushrooms’ influence or Father’s corruption, as Callen returned to the Claw and Aisling donned her grandmother’s helm. And the Isle of Lost Souls…
It was painful to visit when we finally did go back.
The silver pools that had released the soulstones had transformed once more, becoming mere water that flowed down instead of up and offered relief to a person who drank it, but no more power than that.
A safe haven: one Kiara declared could rule itself unless a day came when trouble might arise.
But I never felt it again, the old tether to that island, though magic still dwells in my veins.
No more or less than I felt before our adventures, though without the shame and amulets it’s a gentle thing: power held in a soft awareness of others.
Enough to cast bones, see grief, and hold someone’s hand to help them through.
As for the wolves, we sail on a new ship that Kiara had built, with sails rumored to be made of starlight.
A ship that finally has a name.
Nessa.
It’s fast and ferocious, docked outside our cottages until we fancy taking her for a spin. The days of pirating are…somewhat behind us. But Faolan can’t be far from the ocean for long, and I want our children to grow up with the wind in their hair.
The world at their hands.
After all, we are the Wolves of the Wild, meant to roam the sea and gather stories in our palms. We are mortals. Mythmakers. Legends.
And legends don’t die.