breathed deep, smelling rich, fertile soil. Once again, something new stirred in me.
Roots
Growth
I closed my eyes. Behind my lids, I saw the figure of a man limned in brightness, his head bowed, cupping a seedling in his palm. He raised his head and smiled with infinite gentleness. The scent of apples filled the air.
"Moirin." My mother said my name, calling me back to myself.
I opened my eyes and shivered.
We were approaching the burial mound. A man strode toward us, one hand on the hilt of his sword. He was a warrior of the Cullach Gorrym in the old tradition, elaborate tattoos of blue woad whorling his cheeks and brow. More men waited behind him.
And beyond them, others. My people.
"Lady," the man said curtly. "State your name."
My mother lifted her head to meet his gaze. Sunlight slanted over her high, wide cheekbones. "Fainche," she said calmly. "Daughter of Eithne, daughter of Brianna, daughter of Alais."
He gave a brief bow. "Come in peace and be welcome."
I felt dizzy with the newness of it all. The burial mound loomed. It was a calm place, a tranquil place.
A place of death.
And today, the Maghuin Dhonn watched over it.
"Fainche." A man reached out his hand. "You came."
"I came," she agreed, taking his hand. "Moirin, this is Oengus."
He clapped my shoulder and smiled. The scent of musk and granite and pine surrounded me. "Well met, little one."
Others came then, gazing at me with dark, curious eyes. All of them bore the subtle stamp of the Maghuin Dhonna sense of wildness, untamed and dangerous. It should have been reassuring, but it wasn't. They regarded me as though I were other , and for the first time, I felt strange and alien to myself.
"Has she shown signs of great promise?" a woman whispered to my mother. My mother shrugged. "Ah." The other woman turned away, disappointed.
"Moirin!" A man with laughing eyes came forward, proffering a short bow sized for a child's draw and a quiver of neatly fletched arrows. "Well met, little niece. I made this for you." He kissed my mother on the cheek. "Greetings, sister. Do you prosper in your hermitage?"
"Aye." She smiled. "Moirin, this is your uncle, Mabon. He has a gift for working with wood."
I had an uncle?
"Thank you," I whispered, clutching the bow and quiver.
He tousled my hair. "Fine as silk." He lowered his voice. "Does she?" My mother shook her head. "Ah." The same disappointment. "Well, then."
The sound of a harp arose, piercing and poignant and beautiful. I knew of harps only from my mother's tales, but even so, I could sense the mastery in the harpist's touch. He stood apart from everyone else, eyes closed.
"Mother?" I touched her arm. "What is it everyone expects me to be?"
"Hush." She rubbed my back with a soothing motion. "We will speak of it, but not now." She nodded at the burial mound. "Now is for honoring those who lie within and remembering that such a thing should never come to pass again."
I gazed at the green mound.
Our history lay buried there. A princess of the Cullach Gorrym, great with childthe half-D'Angeline child who would have grown to manhood and crushed the Maghuin Dhonn, hunting us down and destroying all our sacred places. And our last two great magicians, Morwen and Berlik, who had slain her and the child in her womb.
They had broken binding oaths to do it.
In the tales, they bore the mark of a magicianeyes as pale as moonlight, unheard of among our kind. My skin prickled, and I wondered again what color my own eyes were.
We stood for a long time while the harp gave voice to a wordless song of knowledge, power, and folly, and terrible sacrifice.
Morwen's folly had been the most grave and her sacrifice the most terrible. By the terms of the oath she broke, her spirit was condemned to wander for ten thousand years without solace.
Morwen Moirin?
I shivered some more.
What a dire night it must have been. No wonder we were still feared in Alba. I was filled with a reverent horror at the choices Morwen and
Roots
Growth
I closed my eyes. Behind my lids, I saw the figure of a man limned in brightness, his head bowed, cupping a seedling in his palm. He raised his head and smiled with infinite gentleness. The scent of apples filled the air.
"Moirin." My mother said my name, calling me back to myself.
I opened my eyes and shivered.
We were approaching the burial mound. A man strode toward us, one hand on the hilt of his sword. He was a warrior of the Cullach Gorrym in the old tradition, elaborate tattoos of blue woad whorling his cheeks and brow. More men waited behind him.
And beyond them, others. My people.
"Lady," the man said curtly. "State your name."
My mother lifted her head to meet his gaze. Sunlight slanted over her high, wide cheekbones. "Fainche," she said calmly. "Daughter of Eithne, daughter of Brianna, daughter of Alais."
He gave a brief bow. "Come in peace and be welcome."
I felt dizzy with the newness of it all. The burial mound loomed. It was a calm place, a tranquil place.
A place of death.
And today, the Maghuin Dhonn watched over it.
"Fainche." A man reached out his hand. "You came."
"I came," she agreed, taking his hand. "Moirin, this is Oengus."
He clapped my shoulder and smiled. The scent of musk and granite and pine surrounded me. "Well met, little one."
Others came then, gazing at me with dark, curious eyes. All of them bore the subtle stamp of the Maghuin Dhonna sense of wildness, untamed and dangerous. It should have been reassuring, but it wasn't. They regarded me as though I were other , and for the first time, I felt strange and alien to myself.
"Has she shown signs of great promise?" a woman whispered to my mother. My mother shrugged. "Ah." The other woman turned away, disappointed.
"Moirin!" A man with laughing eyes came forward, proffering a short bow sized for a child's draw and a quiver of neatly fletched arrows. "Well met, little niece. I made this for you." He kissed my mother on the cheek. "Greetings, sister. Do you prosper in your hermitage?"
"Aye." She smiled. "Moirin, this is your uncle, Mabon. He has a gift for working with wood."
I had an uncle?
"Thank you," I whispered, clutching the bow and quiver.
He tousled my hair. "Fine as silk." He lowered his voice. "Does she?" My mother shook her head. "Ah." The same disappointment. "Well, then."
The sound of a harp arose, piercing and poignant and beautiful. I knew of harps only from my mother's tales, but even so, I could sense the mastery in the harpist's touch. He stood apart from everyone else, eyes closed.
"Mother?" I touched her arm. "What is it everyone expects me to be?"
"Hush." She rubbed my back with a soothing motion. "We will speak of it, but not now." She nodded at the burial mound. "Now is for honoring those who lie within and remembering that such a thing should never come to pass again."
I gazed at the green mound.
Our history lay buried there. A princess of the Cullach Gorrym, great with childthe half-D'Angeline child who would have grown to manhood and crushed the Maghuin Dhonn, hunting us down and destroying all our sacred places. And our last two great magicians, Morwen and Berlik, who had slain her and the child in her womb.
They had broken binding oaths to do it.
In the tales, they bore the mark of a magicianeyes as pale as moonlight, unheard of among our kind. My skin prickled, and I wondered again what color my own eyes were.
We stood for a long time while the harp gave voice to a wordless song of knowledge, power, and folly, and terrible sacrifice.
Morwen's folly had been the most grave and her sacrifice the most terrible. By the terms of the oath she broke, her spirit was condemned to wander for ten thousand years without solace.
Morwen Moirin?
I shivered some more.
What a dire night it must have been. No wonder we were still feared in Alba. I was filled with a reverent horror at the choices Morwen and
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