He pulled it out, puzzled over the hand-drawn (with Morena’s help) cover.
“This is my name. I can read my name, and a little more. It says Finian the something and something.”
“Finian the Brave and True.”
“This word is by, and the next has the brr sound like brave.”
“It’s my name. Breen Kelly.”
He looked up at her with stunned eyes. “You wrote a story for me?”
“For you, and about you. An adventure I imagined for you.”
“I can’t read all the words. Will you read it for me?”
“Absolutely.”
“Inside, I’m thinking, out of this wind. We’ll have some tea,” Tarryn added. “Come, my birthday lad.” She hauled him up. “We’ll have tea and cake and hear of Finian’s tale.”
Keegan touched her arm before Breen could follow the others. “That was a very fine gift. He’ll never forget it.”
“Every child deserves a bright birthday, no matter what else is happening. Morena told us what you learned, and what you plan to do. Are you sure that girl’s safe?”
“She is, and will be. It’s a blessing she’ll sleep through it, and not be frightened.” He looked south. “And in a few hours, it’s done. But for now, you’re right. The boy deserves a bright day. And I’d like to hear his story.”
She read the story, then read it again when Marg arrived with her gift and good wishes. Instead of a day of practice and training, she took a ride with Morena and Marco with the hawk circling overhead.
And Marco cringing whenever Amish landed on Morena’s arm.
“When we can,” Breen began, “I’d love to go hawking again. You’re excused,” she said to Marco.
“Damn right.”
“We’ll take Amish on a hunt when you’re back from the Capital.” Morena looked up, followed the hawk. And the glide of dragons, the sweep of faeries. “Keeping a close eye this day. I’ll be more than glad when it’s tomorrow. As will Harken. It’s hard for him to know his brothers will be in the thick, and he’s here in the valley. But he’s needed here, to keep watch on Aisling and the boys—and don’t ever tell her I said such a thing.”
“I won’t. He’s here to watch over me, too, isn’t he?”
“I never said such a thing, but of course.”
“And are you watching over me?”
Morena shifted in the saddle. “In my way. But enough of this. I’m saying you’ll pay attention to things at the Capital. I’ll want all the news—the gossip, as there’s always gossip. And I don’t mind hearing of the fashions, as I’ll have to consider them when I visit myself.”
“I’m your man on that.” Marco held up a hand. “This is Marco Olsen reporting for Capital Fashion News.”
Laughing, Morena reached over and swatted him. “You’re a one, you are.”
It was all so normal, Breen thought, or as normal as her normal had become. The day passed as days did—a quick shower in the late afternoon that only served to make the green shine. Sheep grazed on the hills, cows in the fields.
She saw children out playing, as Samhain gave them a holiday from school. Farmers worked the fields, bringing in harvest to store away for the winter to come or loaded into wagons for bartering.
They would light bonfires on the beaches that night, and she would join in for her first Samhain.
And she thought of the spirits trapped inside the stone ruin, some hungry to break free and taste blood. Some desperate to find release in the light at last.
She and Marco had the evening meal with Marg before sunset, then gathered what they needed to take to the bay.
“Some,” Marg explained as she mounted her mare, “will have their own circle, make their own offerings at their homes, in their hills. All and any are welcome to join ours. Seven are chosen to make the coven, to cast the circle, to complete the ceremony, but all are part of the whole. And there will be seven from each tribe represented.”
“How are they chosen?”
“The Sidhe choose theirs, the Weres theirs, and so on. For the Wise who will cast the circle, in most times Keegan would lead—as he is taoiseach, of the Wise, and comes from the valley.”
“But he’s already gone to the south.”
“Aye, and there will be some who wonder why he isn’t here. We will say to those who do he’s taking part at the Capital. In his place, Tarryn has chosen. She will serve, as will Harken and Aisling, as I will, as will young Declan, who’s reached his thirteenth year, and Old Padric, who has reached his century mark, as you will serve.”
“Me? But, Nan, I’ve never—”
“Nor has young Declan. All seven chosen drew their first breath in the valley.”
“If I do something wrong—”
“Why do you do that?” Marco demanded. “You’re not going to screw up, so stop it. Girl, I’ve watched you since all this started. And I’m saying you’ve got more going than you did when I first fell through the rabbit hole. Just that fun shit you did last night with the costumes. Man, you didn’t even really think about it. Just, like, abracadabra.”
“That was just …” Something she’d never done before, Breen realized.
“Marco knows his friend, and I know my granddaughter. He’s the right of it, and I’ve seen the same. Your power grows, and your memories clear. One, I think, connects to the other. This is a solemn night, mo stór, but a joyful one as well.”
She paused to gesture. “The fires are laid, the altar set, and the Fey gather. As do those from the outside who join us, and are welcome.”
And while the balefire burned, Breen thought, the battle would rage in the south. She wouldn’t make a mistake, she vowed as they walked the horses toward the beach. And she would open herself and send whatever she had, whatever she could, to those who fought back the dark.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Breen knew some of the faces, some of the names from the ceilidh. Marco, of course, knew more, so she didn’t worry about having someone explain the rite to him, walk him through it as she’d planned to do.
In this rite, in this way, her grandmother had told her, any who wished could leave an offering at the altar. A token, an image of an ancestor, food, wine, flowers. All this brought and left before the casting of the circle, before the words were spoken, before the lighting of the fire.
She saw now many had left those offerings, and more laid others. Beside the drawing Marg placed of Eian, Breen laid blooms picked from flowers she’d planted herself. And gave Marco’s hand a squeeze as he placed a small boule of bread beside them.
“It’s good,” he told her. “I didn’t know what I’d think of all this, but it’s …it’s personal and respectful. It’s good.”
He gave her a kiss on the cheek before he moved away.
Personal, Breen thought. Yes, it felt very personal. The images, the tokens, the food, the flowers, they all felt very personal.
She stepped back to wait until she was called, turned when she heard a man ask about the taoiseach.
Before she could answer, the girl beside him rolled her eyes as it seemed girls did in all worlds.
“I told you, Uncle, he’s observing Samhain in the Capital.”
“He should be here. This is his place.”
“All of Talamh is his place,” Breen heard herself say. Surprised at herself, she offered a smile to soften the sharpness that had cut through her words.
“What do you know? Who are you to say? You lived your life in the world of man.”
“Uncle! Your pardon. My uncle traveled from the north only a few weeks ago to stay with us through Samhain. He hoped to see the taoiseach lead the ritual.”