She led others out through the maze, casting light ahead to clear the path.

She saw only snatches of the battle as she struggled to meld her thoughts with Eian’s. Odran’s eyes, she saw them, darker than the smoke and alive with raging hate.

When she had the troops safely away, the wounded carried off to home, she whirled her dragon back.

Before she reached the keep it imploded. The sheer violence of it stormed against her, through her.

Still, she fought to drive the dragon forward.

Then she saw him—her son, her boy—rising up above the smoking rubble. Bloody, smeared with ash, but alive.

He dived toward her.

“The waterfall!” he shouted. “Get through, get everyone through. The moment all are safe, we block the portal. I need you to help me close it.”

“I’m with you. You’re hurt. You’re bleeding.”

“So are you.” Across the air, he reached out, touched her hand. “I couldn’t risk letting you see what was in my mind. He might have seen, seen just enough to defend.”

“You are taoiseach. And Odran?”

“I don’t know, not for certain. He would have buried us both in that cursed place rather than see me live. Now he’s buried there. Gods will he stays buried.”

“But he didn’t.” Marg spoke to Breen now. “Years passed, and we came to believe him gone. We blocked the portal into that world, and still, he slithered through. But you were safe. Your father made certain of it, for as long as he could.”

“By taking me out of the world he loved.”

“We cast spells for your protection, and some to dull memories so the heartbreak wouldn’t be so keen. His dearest friend lost his life in that battle. Kavan, father to Keegan, Aisling, and Harken. And so he gave Kavan’s widow and his children the farm. It would be in the best of hands, and they would be secure in a home. He would have given up the sword and staff, but after the Battle of the Black Castle, the people pleaded with him to retain them. So when he took you and your mother through the portal to the world she knew, and became yours, he remained taoiseach. He came back often, as often as he could, and kept the peace for as long as he could.”

“How did he come back? He lived . . . There were never out-of-town gigs, were there? He never traveled for his music—for that first and abiding love.”

“Know this.” Once again, Marg took Breen’s hand. “He loved you beyond measure. He loved Talamh. And so he gave up something he loved to be your father, to serve his people.”

“He was a warrior. I saw as if I’d been there, because you were. I saw him. I never knew that part of him.”

A warrior, Breen thought. A leader. A hero.

“There was no need for you to know. Now there is.”

“And I broke the glass of the cage. I did that.”

“You did, aye, you did, a child of only three.”

“How?”

“It was in you, but until that moment, it was soft, it was sweet, and it was innocent. In that moment, when it was needed, you woke full and strong.”

“I don’t know what that means. I don’t know what’s in me. I saw—but I still . . . Demons, like in books and movies. Gargoyles, alive and vicious. They exist.”

“There are worlds where they exist,” Marg confirmed. “He brought them into what he claimed as his.”

“You were . . . terrifying and magnificent. You rode a dragon, you had a sword and a wand. A magic wand?”

“So you could call it. An extension of power. I am of the Wise, as you are.”

“And my father was. My mother wasn’t—isn’t.”

“No. She is what she wished, what she needed you to be. Human. Only human.”

“I need to—” Rising, Breen circled the pretty, cozy room with its simmering fire and sparkling crystals. “What am I then? Half human, half something else? And Odran, my grandfather? He called himself a god. So he’s crazy as well as evil?”

“He is many things. And while mad for power, he is not mad. A god he is.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” She had to sit again. “A god? What, like Thor?”

Marg smiled at her, but the smile was weary. “Legends and lore, as I said, root in truth.”

“But that’s . . . I was going to say impossible, but all of this is. But it’s not. If Odran’s a god, my father was—”

“A demi-god. Born of the Wise and the gods. And you, mo stór, are of the Wise, the Sidhe, the gods, and the human. There is no one in this world or the world where you were reared like you.”

“What does that make me? A freak?”

“A treasure.”

“Mairghread.” Sedric stepped out. “It’s enough for now. She has enough for now. You need food and rest.”

Breen saw it as truth. Her grandmother looked pale and exhausted. She had to bite back at the questions that sprang up, desperate for answers.

“It’s a lot. I need to think. I know you’re not lying to me because I saw. I’ve seen. But I can’t balance it.”

“There’s bread and cheese while the stew finishes,” Sedric announced. “You’ll eat some.”

Imperious, he turned and walked away.

“Is he your familiar? That’s the term, isn’t it?”

“He is my mate. I will never pledge again, but if I could do so, I would pledge to Sedric.”

“Oh. So you’re . . . oh.”

Marg’s face relaxed again, with some humor. “Such matters don’t stop in youth, my girl. He fought that day. He bled for you. He would give his life for yours if needs be. Because he is mine, I am his. And so, you are his.”

So they ate bread and cheese in the warm kitchen with the door open to the air and the oncoming evening.

And when questions, so many more questions, nagged at Breen, the steady stare in Sedric’s eyes made her hold them back.

“I haven’t unpacked. I didn’t bring much, but I should take care of that. And you said there was a way I could write. I start early.”

“I’ll show you.” Sedric rose, then brought Marg’s hand to his lips. “Rest awhile. You’ve had a trying day. Tomorrow’s soon enough for more.”

“Don’t fuss.”

“If fussing I did, you’d be abed with a potion for a full night’s sleep. Come, girl, I’ll show you what you need.”

“Tomorrow’s soon enough,” Breen told Marg. “We’re all tired.”

“Well done,” Sedric said as he led her back to her room. “There’s nothing she wouldn’t do for you, and some she must do troubles her heart.”

“You knew my father.”

“Knew, admired, respected, loved. He was a son to me.”

A son to him, Breen thought.

“You’ve been with my grandmother a long time.”

“As long as she would have me. I remember you as a bright, charming child with a strong will. It appears your time in the world of Earth dulled that will. But no matter,” he said lightly. “You have only to use it to shine it up again. For now, what you need for your work is here.”

He gestured to the desk. On it she saw a tall stack of paper, and a pen. She walked over, lifted the pen—silver with a small red crystal on the top of the cap.

“A fountain pen?”

“More than that. Remember where you are. Your devices, as they’re called, won’t operate here. But this pen, conjured only for you, will never run out of ink. It will transfer your thoughts to the page, and in the manner you use for this blog you write, and the other stories and communications. It’s a very fine gift of storytelling you have, and this pen, these papers will assist you.”

“I’m not sure I know how to write that way. And for the blog, I include photographs.”

“You simply describe the image you wish to use, and it will be done. We have people who live on the other side of the portal. They’ll take what you write, and transcribe it to your device.”

“People from here live in Ireland?”

“And beyond. They must take a sacred oath, and live by it if they choose to dwell outside Talamh. For now, know that we revere storytellers here, and that you’re free to continue, in this way, while you visit.”

He stepped back. “We’ll have our meal when you’re ready, but I ask you not to take too long. Marg will feel better with a good bowl of stew.”

“Ten minutes.”

With a nod, he stepped out, closed the door.

Alone, she shook her head at the stack of paper, at the pen in her hand.

“I guess it could’ve been a fricking quill.”

She considered the blog delayed for a day, maybe two, then, curious, uncapped the pen. Still standing, she put the tip on the top paper.

“If it was . . .”

She saw the words, and the rest of the thought appear on the page as if typed in her chosen font.

If it was good enough for Jane Austen. Oh my God! How is this—Stop!

She lifted the pen with a jerk.

Too much, she decided. It was all just too much for one day.

She capped the pen, set it down with great care.

She hadn’t brought much, so put everything in the wardrobe that smelled of cedar and lavender before opening the door to the bathroom—water closet, she thought.

That about described it, she supposed. A big copper tub dominated the small room. She studied the tiny toilet with a pull chain with some anxiety. On a table, a large pitcher sat beside a bowl. The water in the pitcher was warm—very warm—when she dipped a finger in.

The impossibility no longer baffled her.

Shelves held a pair of fluffy white towels, crystal bottles filled with liquids, oils, tiny beads that smelled of herbs and flowers, and a cake of soap in a dish.

Iron sconces held candles as fragrant as the soap.

Maybe it lacked a shower, and maybe she remained dubious about the toilet, but she couldn’t deny the charm.