She boosted herself off the counter. “I’m not much of a one for warring. But I think of what Toric and those like him will do, have done, what those like him did all those years back, before any of us living now were born. How they tortured and killed in the name of their twisted faith. I would lift a sword to right that wrong.”
She shook her head, poured herself more wine. “The girl they have, her name is Alanis, Keegan learned, and her family is half-mad searching for her, fearing she’s lost or hurt.”
“And he couldn’t tell them,” Breen murmured. “He couldn’t because they might not hold back another day and we’d lose the advantage.”
“It weighs on him, I’ll tell you that. And I’ll tell you you’ll be seeing more than the shops and craftsmen, the crowds and the dancing at the Welcome. You’ll see justice done at the Capital when Keegan sits in the Chair of Justice and brings down his staff on the likes of Toric.”
It dragged at her mind, her heart, so Breen’s sleep came in patches. When she gave up before sunrise, she found herself unable to escape into the work. Instead, she walked down to the bay, sat, watched Bollocks’s joyful splashing while the sun rose.
It bloomed pink in the east, a shimmering line over the hills that spread, spread, spread with hints of gold, streaks of scarlet.
Thin columns of mist twined toward the light from the surface of the water, caught glints, tiny sparks of silver that turned the world into a gauzy curtain. The water shooting up from the dog’s happy swim tossed tiny jewels over the curtain.
And the rising sun breathed the night’s shadows away.
When he came out of the water, Bollocks sat beside her, and in the quiet, watched with her as the morning came into full bloom.
He tapped his tail when Marco walked down to them, coffee cups steaming in both hands.
But she didn’t hear him.
“Saw you down here, so I brought coffee. What a sight.” He held out her mug, then saw her eyes. “Hey, girl.”
“Before the sun rises again, before the light breaks as day follows night, death comes. Blood flies, and the storm of battle rips the air. As the veil thins on this Samhain, even the dead weep for innocence lost. But the dragon flies, and its fire purges clean. Innocence lost and innocence saved, and the supplicants of the fallen god will meet their fate.”
When she drew her knees up, rested her forehead on them, Marco sat beside her, rubbed her back as Bollocks leaned against her updrawn legs.
“I’ve tried pushing it away, but I know I have to see it. I have to watch it. Tonight.”
“You aren’t saying you’re going down there?”
“No, I don’t have to be there to watch. I’d just add more risk if I went. Marco, I feel like there’s something I need to find or be or have, that I just can’t see yet. Can’t reach yet. And I don’t know what it’s going to mean if I do see it, do reach it.”
She lifted her head, leaned it on Marco’s shoulder as she put an arm around the dog. “But I do know that in a few more hours people will risk their lives, and some will give them, to protect the rest of us. And I know, in Talamh, a little boy’s probably awake right now, so happy, so excited because today’s his birthday. I know that matters.”
“It all matters, Breen.” He picked up the coffee he’d set down, pushed the mug into her hand. “That’s why there’s always some son of a bitch trying to fuck it up.”
She let out a half laugh. “Truer words. Let’s sit here with this wonderful dog, drink our coffee, and look at all this beauty. It matters.”
The wind blew sharp in the valley, flattening the tall grasses this way then that and sending leaves twirling. But the sun pushed through clouds to spread widening spots of blue.
At the farm, in the paddock, Harken walked beside his nephew as Finian rode around and around on a pretty buckskin with a braided mane. His little brother sat on Keegan’s shoulders waving his arms in the air and hooting approval while his parents stood, arms around each other’s waists, and watched.
His grandmother perched on the paddock fence like a young girl, her hair blowing free in the wind.
“Look at me! Look at me!” Finian shouted when he saw the newcomers. “Harken gave me my own horse, and I named him Stoirm. Keegan had a saddle made just for me. It even has my name on it. I can ride every day.”
“In the paddock, my boy,” his mother warned him. “Until I say different.”
Kavan leaned down, arms outstretched toward Breen. Taking him, she gave him a little bounce before she set him on her hip so he could play with her hair.
“Lá breithe shona duit. And if I mangled that, happy birthday.”
“You did well enough,” Keegan told her.
“Míle buíochas!” Finian called back.
“He thanks you,” Keegan translated.
“I actually knew that one, and a little more. My father taught me some of the basics. I’d forgotten. Some’s come back to me.”
“Ma says the more tongues you speak the more places you’ll go.” Obviously in love, Finian bent forward to lay his cheek on his horse’s neck. “I’m going to learn lots of them like Keegan so I can go many places.”
His smile went coy as he spotted the little box Marco carried, the bag in Breen’s hand. “Did you bring gifts for me?”
“A gift’s best offered, not asked for.”
Finian just smiled at his father. “I just wondered.”
“I don’t think mine can compete with a horse or a saddle with your name on it.” Marco held up the box. “But I brought you something of mine I thought you might like.”
“Giving something of yours to me makes the gift very portent— important,” he corrected.
“Now, that’s well said, and as true as true can be. Off the horse now,” Aisling told him, “and come accept your important gift.”
Harken started to lift him down, but Finian shook his head. “I can do it. I can.”
He swung his leg over, shimmied down, and leaped the rest of the way.
“And who will tend this fine horse of yours?” Mahon asked him as Finian climbed through the fence.
“I will, Da. I promise I’ll take good care of him always.”
“I know you will. Let’s see what Marco’s got for you.”
Finian opened the box to a smaller box inside. The idea made him laugh as he worked out how to open the lid on the gift.
“It shines! It’s a— It has a word, but I don’t know it.”
“Harmonica. It was a gift to me from Breen’s dad when I was just a little older than you.”
Finian let out a gasp. “A gift from the taoiseach! But you have to keep it.”
“I had this strong feeling he wanted me to give it to you. It was the first instrument he taught me to play.”
“This is a grand gift indeed, Fin.” Tarryn walked over to them. “It has history and heart as well as music.”
“A thousand thanks. Will you play it so I can hear?”
Marco took it, played a quick riff. “It sounds happy.”
“It can sound happy, or sad.” He played it mournful. “Or scary!” After demonstrating, Marco handed it back. “Try it. Hold it like this.”
He coached him through the first notes that had Kavan bouncing and clapping.
Marco grinned up at Aisling. “Apologies in advance for a lot of noise.”
“Not a’tall! Music is always welcome.”
“Will you teach me to play songs on it?”
“I was hoping you’d ask. We’ll work on that. You can keep it in your pocket—that’s the handy thing about a harmonica—and play it anytime you want.”
Rising, he plucked Kavan off Breen’s hip. “Your turn.”
“I hope you like it.”
After sliding the harmonica into his pocket, Finian opened the bag, peeked in. “A book! I like stories. Ma or Da reads or tells us stories before bed every night.”