He would be strong. And one day, strong enough.
He studied his handâno mark on it now, but he understood. He carried her blood, and her gift. These, one day, he would pass to his sons, his daughters. If it wasnât for him to destroy Cabhan, it would be done by his blood.
But he hoped, by all the gods, it was for him.
For now, heâd fish. It was good to be a man, he thought, to hunt and fish, to provide. To pay back his cousins for the shelter and the care.
Heâd learned patience since being a manâand caught four fish before he rowed the boat back to shore. He secured the boat, strung the fish on a line.
He stood a moment, looking out at the water, the shine of it now under the fullness of the sun. He thought of his mother, the sound of her voice, the scent of her hair. Her words would stay with him.
He would walk back through the little woods. Not great like home, but a fine wood all the same, he told himself.
And he would bring Ailish the fish, take some tea by the fire. Then he would help with the last of the harvest.
He heard the high, sharp cry as he started back to the cottage and the little farm. Smiling to himself, he reached into his satchel, drew out his leather glove. He only had to pull it on, lift his arm, and Roibeard swooped out of the clouds, wings spread to land.
âGood morning to you.â Eamon looked into those golden eyes, felt the tug of connection with his hawk, his guide, his friend. He touched the charmed amulet around his neck, one his mother had conjured with blood magicks for protection. It carried the image of the hawk.
âItâs a fine day, isnât it? Bright and cool. The harvest is nearly done, and weâll have our celebration soon,â he continued as he walked with the hawk on his arm. âThe equinox, as you know, when night conquers day as Gronw Pebr conquered Lleu Llaw Gyffes. Weâll celebrate the birth of Mabon, son of Mordon the guardian of the earth. Sure thereâll be honey cakes for certain. Iâll see you have a bit.â
The hawk rubbed its head against Eamonâs cheek, affectionate as a kitten.
âI had the dream again, of Cabhan. Of home, of Ma after she gave us almost all there was of her power and sent us away to be safe. I see it, Roibeard. How she poisoned him with a kiss, how she flamed, using all she had to destroy him. He took her life, and still . . . I saw the stirring in the ashes she made of him. The stirring of them, something evil, and the glow of red from his power.â
Eamon paused a moment, drew up his power, opened to it. He felt the beating heart of a rabbit rushing into the brush, the hunger of a fledgling waiting for its mother and its breakfast.
He felt his sisters, the sheep, the horses.
And no threat.
âHe hasnât found us. I would feel it. You would see it, and would tell me. But he looks, and he hunts, and he waits, as I feel that as well.â
Those bold blue eyes darkened; the boyâs tender mouth firmed into a manâs. âI wonât hide forever. One day, on the blood of Daithi and Sorcha, Iâll do the hunting.â
Eamon lifted a hand, took a fistful of air, swirled it, tossed itâgentlyâtoward a tree. Branches shook, and roosting birds took flight.
âIâll only get stronger, wonât I?â he murmured, and walked to the cottage to please Ailish with four fish.
*Â *Â *
BRANNAUGH WENT ABOUT HER DUTIES AS SHE DID EVERY day. As every day for five years sheâd done all that was asked of her. She cooked, she cleaned, tended the young ones as Ailish always seemed to have a baby at the breast or in the belly. She helped plant the fields and tend the crops. She helped in harvest.
Good honest work, of course, and satisfying in its way. No one could be more kind than her cousin Ailish and her husband. Good, solid people both, people of the earth, whoâd offered more than shelter to three orphaned