Shadow Spell (8 page)

But amused or not, he watched the mists that swirled or crawled—and found nothing in them but moisture. For now.

On a damp evening when work was done, he sat on the cottage stoop with some good strong tea and watched Meara train Iona. Their swords clashed, sharp rings though Branna had charmed them to go limp as noodles should they meet flesh.

His cousin was coming along well, he judged, though he doubted she'd ever match the style and ferocity of Meara Quinn.

The woman might have been born with a sword in her hand the way she handled one. The way she looked with one—tall and curved like a goddess, all that thick brown hair braided down her back.

Her boots, as broken-in as his own, planted on the soggy ground, then danced over it as she drove Iona back, giving her student no quarter. And those dark eyes—a prize like the gold-dust skin of her gypsy heritage—sparkled fierce as she blocked an attack.

Sure he could watch her swing a sword all day. Though he did wince in sympathy as she drove his little cousin back, back, in an unrelenting attack.

Branna came out holding a thick mug of tea of her own, sat beside him.

“She's improving.”

“Hmm? Oh, Iona, yes. I was thinking the same.”

Placidly, Branna sipped her tea. “Were you now?”

“I was. Stronger than she was when she came to us, and she wasn't a weakling then. Stronger though, and surer of herself. Surer, too, of her gift. Some of it's us, some of it's Boyle and what love does for body and soul, but most of it was always inside her, just waiting to blossom.”

He patted Branna's knee. “We're lucky, we two.”

“I've thought so a time or two.”

“Lucky in who we came from. We always knew we were loved and valued. And what we have, what we are, was indeed a gift and not something to be buried or hidden away. The two of them striking swords in the rain? Not so lucky as we. Iona had and has her granny, and that's a treasure. But beyond that, for them their family's . . . well, fucked, as Meara's fond of saying.”

“We're their family.”

“I know it, as they do. But it's a wound that can't fully heal, isn't it, not to have the full love of those who made you. The indifference of Iona's parents, the full mess of Meara's.”

“Which is worse, do you think? That indifference, which is beyond my understanding, or the full mess? The way Meara's da ran off, taking what money was left after he bollocksed all they had? Leaving a wife and five children alone, or just never giving a damn all along?”

“I think either would leave you flattened. And just look at them. So strong and full of courage.”

Iona stumbled back, slipped. Her ass hit the soggy grass. Meara leaned down, offered a hand, but Iona shook her head, set her teeth. And rolled over, sprang up. Moved in, sword swinging.

Now Connor grinned, slapped his sister's leg.

“Though she be but little, she is fierce!”

“Because it's true, I'll forgive you for quoting the English bard when I've a pot of Guinness stew on the simmer.”

His mind went directly to food. “Guinness stew, is it?”

“It is, and a fine round of sourdough bread with the poppy seeds you're fond of.”

His eyes lit, then narrowed. “And what will I be doing to deserve it?”

“On your next free day I need you to work with me.”

“I will of course.”

“The magicks we made for the solstice . . . I was so certain it would work. But I missed something, just as Sorcha missed something when she sacrificed herself and poisoned Cabhan all that time ago. Every one of us since has missed something. We need to find what's missed.”

“And we will. But you can't leave us out of it, Branna. You didn't miss, the whole of us did. Fin—”

“I know I have to work with him. I have, and I will.”

“Does it help to know he suffers as you do?”

“A little.” She leaned her head on his shoulder a moment. “Small of me.”

“Human of you. A witch is as human as any, as Da always told us.”

“So he did.”

For a few moment they sat quiet, side by side, as swords rang.

“Cabhan's healing, isn't he?” She said it quietly, just to him. “Gathering himself for the next. I feel . . . something in the air.”

“I feel it, too.” Connor watched, as she did, the deep green shadows of the woods. “As his blood, Fin would feel more. Is there stew enough for the whole of us?”

She sighed in a way that told him she'd already thought of it herself. “I suppose there is. Ask them,” she said as she rose, “and I'll make sure of it.”

He took her hand, kissed it. “As human as any, and braver than most. That's my sister.”

“The thought of Guinness stew's made you sentimental.” But she gave his hand a squeeze before she went inside.

It wasn't the stew, though Christ knew it didn't hurt a thing. But he worried about her more than she knew.

Then Iona feinted left, spun, struck from the right, and it was Meara who stumbled, slipped, and landed on the wet grass.

Iona immediately let out a whoop, began to jump in circles, sword raised high.

“Well done, cousin!” he called out over Meara's strong, throaty laugh.

Iona made a flourishing bow, then on a squeak, straightened fast as the flat of Meara's sword slapped her ass.

“Well done indeed,” Meara told her. “But I could've sliced open your belly while you were dancing about in victory. Finish me off next time.”

“Got it, but just one more.” She whooped again, jumped again. “That should do it. I'll put the swords away, and go brag to Branna.”

“That's fair enough.”

Iona took the swords, waved them both high, did another bow for Connor, then dashed inside.

“You trained her well,” Connor commented as he rose to walk over and offer Meara what was left of his tea.

“Cheers to me.”

“Did you let her knock you down?”

“I didn't, no, though I'd considered doing just that to give her a boost. Didn't prove necessary. She's always been quick, but she's learning to be sneaky as well.”

She rubbed her ass. “And now I'm wet where I wasn't.”

“I can fix that.” He moved in a little closer, reached around her. His hands trailed lightly over the butt of her wet trousers.

Warmth seeped over, through, and his hands lingered. Something in her eyes, he thought, something in those dark, exotic eyes. He caught himself on the point of drawing her in when she stepped back.

“Thanks.” She polished off his tea. “And for that as well, though I could use a glass of that wine Branna's so fond of.”

“Then come in and have one. I'm calling on the others to come. There's Guinness stew and a fresh round of bread.”

“I should go on.” She shifted back, glanced toward her lorry. “I'm all but living here these days.”

“She needs her circle, Meara. It would be a favor to me if you'd stay.”

Now she looked over her shoulder, as if sensing something sneaking up behind her. “Is he coming already?”

“I can't say, not absolutely. I'll be hoping Fin can say more. So come inside and have some wine and stew, and we'll be together.”

They came, as Connor knew they always would. So the kitchen filled with voices, the warmth of friends with Kathel stretched in front of the little hearth, and good, rich stew simmering on the stove.

As he'd get his Guinness in the stew, Connor opted for wine himself. Drinking it, he watched his besotted friend grin as Iona, once again, replayed her moment of victory.

Who would have thought Boyle McGraff would fall so hard, so fully? A man who said little, and in general paid more mind to his horses than the ladies. As loyal and true a friend as they came, and a brawler under the self-taught control.

And here was Boyle of the scarred knuckles and fast temper starry-eyed over the little witch who talked to horses.

“You're looking sly and satisfied,” Meara commented.

“I'm enjoying seeing Boyle resemble an overgrown puppy when he looks at Iona.”

“They fit well, and they'll make a good life together. Most don't.”

“Ah now, not most.” It pinched his heart to hear her say it, know she felt it. “The world needs lovers who fit, or how would we go on? To be only one of one for a life? That's a lonely life.”

“Being one of one means being able to go as you please, and not facing being one of two, then ending up the one of one when it all goes to hell.”

“You're a cynical one, Meara.”

“And fine with it.” She shot him a look under arched brows. “You're a romantic one, Connor.”

“And fine with it.”

She laughed, quick and easy, as she set the napkins she held on the table. “Branna says it's serve yourself from the pot on the stove, so you'd best get in line.”

“That I will.”

He fetched wine for the table first to give himself a moment to open a bit, to test the air for any sense or sign before they sat and ate, and talked of magicks. Light and dark.

The stew was a bit of magick itself, but then Branna had a way.

“God, this is good!” Iona spooned up more. “I have to learn how to cook like this.”

“You're doing well with the side dishes,” Branna told her. “And Boyle's a steady cook. He can handle that, and you'll do the sword fighting.”

“Maybe so. After all, I did knock Meara on her ass.”

“Will she never tire of saying it?” Meara wondered. “I see now I'll have to knock her on her own a dozen times to dim her victory light.”

“Even that won't.” Iona smiled, then sat back. “You didn't do it on purpose, did you?”

“I didn't, no, and I'm wishing I had so we could all pity you.”

“We'll have a toast then.” Fin lifted his glass. “To you,
deifiúr bheag
, a warrior to be reckoned with. And to you,
dubheasa
,” he said to Meara, “who made her one.”

“That was smoothly done,” Branna murmured, and drank.

“Sometimes the truth is smooth. Sometimes it's not.”

“Smooth or not, the truth's what's needed.”

“Then I'll give you what I have, though it's but little. You hurt him,” he said to Connor. “You and the boy, Eamon. But he heals. And you, the three, you feel that, as I do.”

“He gathers,” Connor said.

“He does. Gathers the dark and the black around him, and into him. I can't say how, or we might find a way to stop it, and him.”

“The red stone. The source.”

Fin nodded at Iona. “Yes, but how did it come to him? How was it imbued, how can it be taken and destroyed? What price did he pay for it? Only he knows the answers, and I can't get through to find them, or him.”

“Across the river. How far I can't say,” Connor added, “but he's not on our side of it, for now.”

“He'll stay there until he's full again. If we could take him on before he gains back what you and the boy took, we would finish him. I know it. But I've looked, and can't find his lair.”

“Alone?” Fury fired Branna's voice. “You went off looking for him on your own?”

“That slaps at the rest of us, Fin.” Boyle's voice might have been quiet, but the anger simmered under it. “It's not right.”

“I followed my blood, as none of you can.”

“We're a circle.” It wasn't anger in Iona's voice, in her face, but a disappointment that carried a sharper sting. “We're a family.”

For a moment Fin's gratitude, regret, longing rose so strong Connor couldn't block it all. He caught only the edge, and that was enough to make him speak.

“We're both, and nothing changes it. Alone isn't the way, and yet I thought of it myself. As have you,” he said to Boyle. “As have all of us at one time or another. Fin bears the mark, and did nothing to put it there. Which of us can say, with truth, if we were in his place, we wouldn't have done the same?”

“I'd have done the same. Connor has the right of it,” Meara added. “We'd all have done the same.”

“Okay.” But Iona reached over to Fin. “Now don't do it again.”

“I'd take you and your sword with me as protection, but there's no purpose to it. He's found a way to cover himself from me, and I've yet to find the way under it.”

“We'll work longer and harder.” Branna picked up her wine again. “All of us needed time as well after the solstice, but we've not been hiding in the dark licking our wounds. We'll work more, together and alone, and find whatever we've missed.”

“We should meet like this more than we have been.” With a glance around the table, Boyle spooned up more stew. “It doesn't have to be here, though Branna's far better at cooking than me. But we could meet at Fin's as well.”

“I don't mind the cooking,” Branna said quickly. “I enjoy it. And I'm here or over in the workshop most days, so it's easy enough.”

“Easier if it was planned, and we could all give you a hand,” Iona decided, then glanced around as Boyle had. “So. When shall we six meet again?”

“Now it's paraphrasing the English bard.” Branna rolled her eyes. “Every week. At least every week for now. More often if we feel we should. Connor'll be working with me on his free days, as you should, Iona.”

“I will. Free days, evenings, whatever we need.”

There was a pause that went on just a beat too long for comfort.

“And you, Fin.” Branna broke the bread she'd barely touched in half, took a bite. “When you can.”

“I'll keep my schedule loose as I can.”

“And all of that, all of us, will be enough,” Connor determined, and went back to his stew.

6

H
E DREAMED OF THE BOY, AND SAT WITH HIM IN THE
flickering light of a campfire ringed with rough gray stones. The moon hung full, a white ball swimming in a sea of stars. He smelled the smoke and the earth—and the horse. Not the Alastar that had been or was now, but a sturdy mare that stood slack-hipped as she dozed.

On a branch above the horse, the hawk guarded.

And he heard the night, all the whisperings of it in the wind.

The boy sat with his knees drawn in, and his chin upon them.

“I was sleeping,” he said.

“And I. Is this your time or mine?”

“I don't know. But this is my home. Is it yours?”

Connor looked toward the ruins of the cabin, over to the stone marking Sorcha's grave. “It's ours, as it was hers. What do you see there?”

Eamon looked toward the ruins. “Our cabin, as we left it the morning my mother sent us away.”

“As you left it?”

“Aye. I want to go in, but the door won't open for me. I know my mother's not there, and we took all she told us to take. And still I want to go in as if she'd be there, by the fire waiting for me.”

Eamon picked up a long stick, poked at the fire as boys often do. “What do you see?”

It would hurt the boy's heart to tell him he saw a ruin overgrown. And a gravestone. “I see you're in your time, and I in mine. And yet . . .” He reached out, touched Eamon's shoulder. “You feel my hand.”

“I do. So we're dreaming, but not.”

“Power rules this place. Your mother's and, I fear, Cabhan's as well. We hurt him, you and I, so he brings no power here tonight. How long ago for you since we met?”

“Three weeks and five days more. For you?”

“Less. So the time doesn't follow. Are you well, Eamon? You and your sisters?”

“We went to Clare, and we made a little cabin in the woods.” His eyes gleamed as he looked toward his home again. “We used magick. Our hands and backs as well, but we thought if we used magick we'd be safer. And dryer also,” he added with a ghost of a smile. “Brannaugh's done some healing as we traveled, and now that we're there. We have a hen for eggs, and that's a fine thing, and we can hunt—all but Teagan, who can't use the arrow on the living. It hurts her heart to try, but she tends the horses and the hen. We've traded a little—labor and healing and potions for potatoes and turnips, grain and such. We'll plant our own when we can. I know how to plant and tend and harvest.”

“Come to me if you can, when you have need. It might be I can get you food, or blankets, whatever you need.”

Some comfort, Connor thought, for a sad young boy so far from home.

“Thank you for that, but we're well enough, and have coin Ailish and Bardan gave us. But . . .”

“What? You've only to ask.”

“Could I have something of yours? Some small thing to take with me? I'll trade you.” Eamon offered a stone, a cobble of pure white cupped like an egg in his palm. “It's just a stone I found, but it's a pretty one.”

“It is. I don't know what I have.” Then he did, and reached up to take the thin leather strap with its spear of crystal from around his neck.

“It's blue tiger eye—but also called hawk's eye or falcon's eye. My father gave it to me.”

“I can't take it.”

“You can. He's yours as I am. He'll be pleased you have it.” To settle it, he put it around Eamon's neck. “It's a fine trade.”

Eamon fingered the stone, studied it in the firelight. “I'll show my sisters. They were full of wonder and questions when I told of meeting you, and how we drove Cabhan away. And a bit jealous they were as well. They want to meet you.”

“And I them. The day may come. Do you feel him?”

“Not since that day. He can't reach us now, Brannaugh said. He can't go beyond his own borders, so he can't reach us in Clare. We'll go back when we're grown, when we're stronger. We'll go home again.”

“I know you will, but you'll be safe where you are until the time comes.”

“Do you feel him?”

“I do, but not tonight. Not here. You should rest,” he said when Eamon's eyes drooped.

“Will you stay?”

“I will, as long as I can.”

Eamon curled up, wrapped his short cloak around him. “It's music. Do you hear it? Do you hear the music?”

“I do, yes.” Branna's music. A song full of heart tears.

“It's beautiful,” Eamon murmured as he began to drift. “Sad and beautiful. Who plays it?”

“Love plays it.”

He let the boy sleep and watched the fire until he woke in his own bed with the sun slipping into the window.

When he opened his fisted hand, a smooth white stone lay in his palm.

He showed it to Branna when she came down to the kitchen for her morning coffee. The sleep daze vanished from her eyes.

“It came back with you.”

“We were both there, solid as we are standing here, but both in our own time. I gave him the hawk's-eye stone Da gave me—do you remember it?”

“Of course. You used to wear it when you were a boy. It hangs on the frame of your bedroom mirror.”

“No longer. I wasn't wearing it, or anything else, when I got into bed last night. But in the dream, I was dressed and it was around my neck. Now it's around Eamon's.”

“Each in your own time.” She went to the door to open it for Kathel, returned from his morning run. “Yet you sat together, spoke together. What he gave you came through the dream with you. We have to learn how to use this.”

She opened the fridge, and he saw as she pulled out butter, eggs, bacon, that the story, the puzzle of it, and her need to pick over the pieces would net him breakfast.

“We heard you playing.”

“What?”

“In the clearing. We heard you. Him so sleepy he could barely hold his eyes open. And the music came, your music, came to us. He fell asleep listening to you. Did you play last night?”

“I did, yes. I woke restless, and played for a bit.”

“We heard you. It carried all the way there from your room.”

He caught the flicker over her face as she set bacon to sizzle in the pan. “You weren't in your room then. Where?”

“I needed some air. I just needed the night for a bit. I only went to the field behind the cottage. I felt I couldn't breathe without the air and the music.”

“I wish you'd find a way to mend things with Fin.”

“Connor, don't. Please.”

“I love you both. That's all I'll say for now.” He wandered the kitchen rubbing the little stone. “The field's too far from the clearing for the music to carry, by ordinary means.”

He circled the kitchen as she sliced soda bread, as she broke eggs into the pan.

“We're tied together. We three, those three. He heard your music. Twice now I've spoken to him. Iona saw Teagan.”

“And I've seen or heard none of them.”

Connor paused to pick up his coffee. “Eamon mentioned his sisters were jealous as well.”

“I'm not jealous. Well, a little, I admit. But it's more frustrated, and maybe a bit insulted as well.”

“He took your music into dreams, and smiled as he slept when he'd been sad.”

“I'll take that as something then.” She plated the bacon, the eggs she'd fried. Passed it to him.

“Aren't you having some?”

“Just some coffee and toasted bread.”

“Well, thanks for the trouble.”

“You can pay it back with another favor.” She plucked toast out of the toaster, dropped one piece on his plate, and another on a smaller one. “Carry the stone he gave you.”

“This?” He'd already put it in his pocket, and now drew it out.

“Carry it with you, Connor, as you wear the amulet. There's power in it.”

She took her toast and coffee to the table, waiting for him to sit with her. “I don't know, can't be sure if it's suspicion, intuition, or a true knowing, but there's power in it. Good magicks because of where it came from, when it came from, who it came from.”

“All right. I'll hope the hawk's eye does the same for Eamon, and his sisters.”

* * *

IT WASN'T ALL HAWK WALKS WITH EAGER TOURISTS OR
giving tours to school groups. An essential part of the school involved care and training. Clean mews, clean water for baths, weight checks and a varied diet, sturdy lean-tos for weathering the birds so they might feel the air, smell it. Connor prided himself on the health, behavior, and reliability of his birds—those he helped raise from hatchlings, those who came to him as rescues.

He didn't mind cleaning the poo, or the time it took to carefully dry a wet bird's wings, the hours of training.

The hardest part of his job was, and always would be, selling a bird he'd trained to another falconer.

As arranged, he met the customer in a field about ten kilometers from the school. The farmer he knew well allowed him to bring the young hawks he trained to hunt to that open space.

He called the pretty female Sally, and tethered her to his glove to walk her about and talk to her.

“Now Fin's met this lady who wants you to be hers, and he's even seen your new home should the two of you get along. She's coming all the way from Clare. And there, I'm told, she has a fine house and a fine mews. She's done her training as well as you have yours. You'll be her first.”

Sally watched him with her gold eyes, and preened on his fist.

He watched the spiffy BMW navigate the road, pull to a stop behind his truck.

“Here she is now. I expect you to be polite, make a good impression.”

He put on his own game face, though his eyebrows rose a bit when the willowy blonde with a film star's face stepped out of the car.

“Is it Ms. Stanley then?”

“Megan Stanley. Connor O'Dwyer?”

The second surprise was the Yank in her voice. Fin hadn't mentioned that either.

“We're pleased to meet you.”

Sally, as advised, behaved well, merely standing quiet and watching.

“I didn't realize you were an American.”

“Guilty.” She smiled as she walked toward Connor, and earned a point or two by studying the hawk first. “Though I've lived in Ireland for nearly five years now—and intend to stay. She's beautiful.”

“She is that.”

“Fin told me you raised and trained her yourself.”

“She was born in the school in the spring. She's a bright one, I'll tell you that. She manned in no time at all. Hopped right on the glove and gave me a look that said, ‘Well then, what now?' I have her file with me—health, weight, feeding, training. Did you hawk in America?”

“No. My husband and I moved to Clare—just outside of Ennis—and a neighbor has two Harris's Hawks. I'm a photographer, and started taking photos of them, became more and more interested. So he trained me, then helped me design the mews, the weathering area, get supplies. By his rules I wasn't to so much as think about getting a bird until I'd spent at least a year preparing.”

“That's best for all.”

“It's taken more than two, as there was a gap when my husband moved back to the States and we divorced.”

“That's . . . difficult for certain.”

“Not as much as it might've been. I found my place in Clare, and another passion in falconry. I did considerable research before I contacted Finbar Burke. You and your partner have a terrific reputation with your school.”

“He's my boss, but—”

“That's not how he put it. When it comes to hawks or birds of prey, you want the eye, ear, hand, and heart of Connor O'Dwyer.” She smiled again, and the film-star face illuminated. “I'm pretty sure that's a direct quote. I'd love to see her fly.”

“We're here for that. I call her Sally, but if the match between you seems right, you'll call her what suits you.”

“No bells, no transmitter?”

“She doesn't need them here, as she knows these fields,” Connor said as he released the jesses. “But you'll want them back in Clare.”

He barely shifted his arm, and Sally lifted, spread her wings. Soared.

He saw the reaction he wanted, had hoped for in Megan's eyes. The awe that was a kind of love.

“You have a glove with you, I see. You should put it on, call her back yourself.”

“I didn't bring a baiting pouch.”

“She doesn't need baiting. If she's decided to give you a go, she'll come.”

“Now I'm nervous.” Her laugh showed it as she took her glove from her jacket pocket, drew it on. “How long have you been doing this?”

“Always.” He watched the flight of the bird, sent his thoughts.
If you want this, go to her.

Sally circled, dove. And landed pretty as a charm on Megan's glove.

“Oh, you beauty. Fin was right. I won't go home without her.”