Shana walked to the doors, parted the curtains, and watched him fly away.

One day, she thought, he would not fly away from her. One day he would not go back to the west, with its endless fields and sheep.

One day he would stay.

PART III

CHOICE

The difficulty in life is the choice.

—George Moore

To believe only possibilities is not faith,

but mere philosophy.

—Sir Thomas Browne

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

With Bollocks on one of his sniffing, wandering, racing back and forth routines, Breen walked through the woods toward the portal.

The bright, beautiful morning had lured her out to the patio to write in the garden with warm bay breezes and strong sunlight that turned the colors of everything vivid.

She’d nearly blown off her daily visit to Talamh and her grandmother for the simple luxury of basking in what promised to be a stellar afternoon.

But she’d promised, so that was that.

Still, she loved the learning and hoped to do more spell-casting. She’d even written her own, her first. A little twist on an illumination spell that conjured seven balls of light and floated them.

With Marg’s approval, she could try it out.

She didn’t want to spend her last two hours or so in Talamh swinging a damn sword or punching and kicking. She’d work with Keegan, but she wanted to spend that time on magicks. That focus he kept pushing on her.

Focus and control, she thought. She just had to convince him that training her in that area made more sense than slapping bespelled swords together.

As always, Bollocks bounded through the portal ahead of her. And if the kids or dogs were outside at the farm, she knew he’d race straight there.

Or, if he caught sight of them, he’d run around for a while with what she thought of as the Gang of Six—the group of kids from different tribes who raced the roads and roamed the woods.

The dark-skinned elf, Mina—definitely the leader—often approached Breen with questions about the other side. A child couldn’t go unaccompanied through the portals until they’d turned sixteen, but Mina already had plans to see everything she could see.

Bright, curious kids—and still kids, Breen thought, whether they flew or slid into trees or turned into a horse.

If they, or Aisling’s boys, were out and about, Bollocks would make his way to the cottage after a playdate.

She climbed onto the thick, curving branches, over the sturdy rocks. Out of sunlight and into chilly fog and dripping skies.

With sincere regrets for the change in the weather, she pulled up the hood of her jacket, zipped it. She took care maneuvering down the slope, then headed across the soaked grass.

The blanketing fog obscured the farm, and she could barely see the outline of the stone wall or the road beyond it. Definitely an indoor day, she decided as she climbed over the wall.

And one near a fire, as the damp turned the air raw.

She called for the dog, and stuck to the side of the road. No cars, of course, but someone could come galloping along, and with the fog swirling she could barely see two feet ahead.

She conjured a ball of light, thrilled with how quickly it formed in her hand. Mostly it bounced off the shifting curtains of fog, but it helped a little.

Those curtains blocked out sound as well as sight and added, for her, an appealing eeriness to what had become a familiar walk.

Like being inside a cloud, she thought, alone and quiet. And with a fire and a warm drink at the end of it.

She tossed the ball, caught it, to amuse herself, and sang, as it seemed to fit, “The Long and Winding Road.”

“It’s a lovely voice you have.”

The woman stepped out of the fog as if part of it. She wore a long gray cloak with the hood up and over her gray hair. When Breen jolted, nearly bobbled the ball of light, she smiled.

“Ah, I’ve startled you. I’m sorry for that. Such a mist we have this day. You’d be the daughter of he who was taoiseach, granddaughter of Mairghread. Breen, isn’t it? I’m Yseult, and pleased to meet you, even on such a day.”

“Yes, I’m Breen.”

The woman carried a basket with the feathery tops of carrots spilling out. Her eyes, gray as her hair, held that easy smile.

“Do you live nearby?”

“Oh, a ways yet to go. I bartered some of my wares for the carrots at the O’Broin farm—what was yours once. I’ve never had the knack of growing them.”

“I’m just on my way to see my grandmother.”

“I’m sure she’s happy to have you near after all this time.” In the chilly air, Yseult drew her cloak tighter. “Might I walk with you, make use of your pretty light in all this gloom? I’d like to stop by and give greetings to my old friend.”

“Of course. You know my grandmother?” Breen began as they started to walk.

“Ah sure, everyone knows Mairghread, and we came up together you could say. And I knew your father since he was a babe in nappies. You’ve the look of them, the O’Ceallaighs. But for the eyes. Those you have from your sire and his before him.”

“Yes, so I’m told.”

“You spent many the year on the outside.” She wagged a finger at the ball. “Learning the craft from your da then?”

“No. I’ve only started to learn since coming here.”

“Well now, that’s a pity, isn’t it? Your sire had great power, from the O’Ceallaighs and from the god. Much he could have taught you. The power’s in you as well, and the blood of the god.”

“My grandmother’s teaching me.”

“To conjure little balls of light.”

Breen glanced over at the dismissive tone. The smile, that easy smile remained, a contrast. The eyes, she saw, weren’t gray, but nearly black.

Dark and deep.

“Light’s the core, the heart, the foundation.”

“Do you think so? When light is so easily snuffed out?” She plucked the ball from Breen’s hand, closed hers around it. When she reopened her hand, the light had vanished.

“Such a weak glow really, and easily killed. Black will always smother white, my girl. Dark will always defeat light. Learn this lesson well, for so it will always be.”

Not gray, Breen realized when her head spun a little. As she watched color flow into the hair under the hood. Red. Not a bright, fiery red, but deep, dark red. Like heart blood. The cloak turned black.

Whatever was in the basket began to slither and hiss.

“Who are you?”

“Yseult, as I said. One who knows your grandmother well. I am the dark to her light. I am one who helped Odran send your father, that weak excuse for a son, to his death. Come, come watch, child, while I do the same to the woman who bore him. Then I’ll take you to your grandsire. He waits to cloak you in robes of gold and show you the true power in your blood.”

Dizzy, sick, Breen stumbled back. The beauty of Yseult’s face, a face that had been pleasant, even ordinary, grew to terrifying.

She glowed, a dark light, while the snakes—two-headed snakes—in a basket—not of straw, but gold—began to slither over the sides.

“No. I’m not going anywhere with you. You’re not getting near my grandmother.”

The smile flashed, brilliant in its confidence. “So young, so foolish, so weak. Will you make another pretty ball of light to stop me?”

When she gripped Breen’s arm, the heat scorching through her skin nearly buckled her knees. Even as she jerked back, one of the snakes struck. That pain dropped her.

Still she struggled to draw up the light, the power, to find a shield, a weapon.

It snapped from her fingertips, struck Yseult’s cloak. Smoked.

Eyebrows arching, Yseult stepped back. Then the smile returned. “So you have a bit more than I thought. But not enough, little flower. Not enough.”

Breen crossed her hands in the air. This time the little bolts of light fell harmlessly to the ground.

“You want more. I can feel your need. I can give you more. Your grandsire can give you more than your feeble mind can imagine.”

“I don’t want anything from you, from him.”

“But you’ll have it. And we’ll take it.”

As Yseult stepped forward, Breen prepared to fight with whatever she had left. And the dragon roared through the fog.

He swung his tail to encircle Breen as Keegan leaped off his back.

With the sword already in his hand, he charged Yseult. She upended the basket, sending the snakes streaking toward him as she whirled into the fog.

“She’ll be your death, Taoiseach,” she called out. “And take her place in the black tower while Odran rules for all time.”

“I will be yours.”

The snakes screamed as he shot them with light. When they turned to ash, the fog swirled away. Yseult was gone.

Keegan sheathed his sword. “I will be yours,” he repeated, and turned to Breen. He signaled his dragon to uncurl his tail, then shook his head.

“And how do you expect to fight sitting on your arse?”

He took one step toward her, then his expression changed from temper to shock.

He rushed to kneel beside her. “Did they strike? Are you bitten?”

“My arm.”

Roughly, he shoved up her sleeve, cursed. Helpless, mired in the searing pain, she screamed.

“I’m sorry, truly. No, no, stay awake!” As her head lolled, he gripped her chin hard enough to bruise. “You have to stay awake. We need to burn the poison out before it takes you into the Sleep, and there’s no time to get you to Aisling. We do this together.”

“I don’t know how. I’m so tired.”

“Look at me. Join with me. Light with me, fire with me, power with me, two into one. See the dark moving in your blood, cleanse with white fire until there is none. Say this with me.”

Everything blurred, her eyes, her mind, her ears. “What?”

“Stay awake, gods damn it. Look at me. My eyes are your eyes, my mind is your mind, my will is your will. Speak the words with me and call the fire.