Page 12 of Shadow Spell

“When he comes, it will take more than healing and potions.”

“So it will,” Brannaugh said to her brother. “So we learn. We were safe five years at the farm. If our guides lead us to Clare, as it seems they will, we may have the next five there. Time enough to learn, to plan. When we go home again, we’ll be stronger than he can know.”

They rode through midday and into the rain. Soft and steady it fell from a sky of bruises and broodings. They rested the horses, watered them, shared oatcakes, with some for Kathel.

Through the rain came the wind as they continued their journey, past a little farm and cabin with smoke puffing out of the chimney, sending out the scent of burning peat. Inside they might be welcome, be given tea and a place by the fire. Inside the warm and dry.

But Kathel continued to prance, Roibeard to circle, and Alastar never slowed.

And even the gloomy light began to die as the day tipped toward night.

“Slaine grows weary,” Teagan murmured. “She won’t ask to stop, but she tires. Her bones ache. Can’t we rest her a bit, find a dry place and—”

“There!” Eamon pointed ahead. Near the muddy track stood what might have been an old place of worship. Sacked now, burned down to the scorched stone by men who couldn’t stop destroying what those they vanquished had built.

Roibeard circled over it, calling, calling, and Kathel bounded ahead.

“We’ll stop there for the night. Make a fire, rest the animals and ourselves.”

Brannaugh nodded at her brother. “The walls stand—or most of them. It should keep the wind out, and we can do the rest. It’s nearly end of day. We owe Mordan and Mabon who came from her our thanks.”

One wall had fallen in, they discovered, but the others stood. Even some steps, which Eamon immediately tested, circled up to what had been a second level. Whatever timber had been used had burned to ashes and blown to the winds. But it was shelter of a sort and, Brannaugh felt, the right place.

This would be the place of their first night, the equinox, when the light and the dark balanced.

“I’ll tend the horses.” Teagan took the reins of both. “The horses are mine, after all. I’ll see to them, if you make us a place, a dry spot I’m hoping, and a good fire.”

“That I’ll do. We’ll give our thanks, then have some tea and some of the dried venison before we—”

She broke off as Roibeard swooped down, perched on a narrow stone ledge.

And dropped a fat hare on the ground at Eamon’s feet.

“Well now, that’s a feast in the making. I’ll clean it, Teagan tends the horses, and Brannaugh the fire.”

A dry spot, she thought, and shoving back the hood of her cloak imagined one. Drew up and out what she was, thought of warm and dry—and flashed out heat so bright and hot it nearly burned them all before she drew it down again.

“I’m sorry for that. I haven’t done any of this before.”

“It’s a cork out of a bottle,” Eamon decided. “And it poured out too fast.”

“Aye.” She slowed it, carefully, carefully. She didn’t mind the wet for herself, but Teagan was right. The old mare’s bones ached, even she could feel it.

She eased back the wet, slowly, just a bit, just a bit more. It trembled through her, the joy of it. Loosed now, free. Then the fire. Magickal tonight. Other nights, as their mother had taught them, a body gathered wood, put the work into it. But tonight, it would be her fire.

She brought it, banked it.

“A bit of the oatcake, and some wine,” she told her brother, her sister. “An offering of thanks to the gods for the balance of the day and night, for the cycle of rebirth. And for this place of rest.

“Into the fire,” she told them. “The cake, then the wine. These small things we share with thee, we give our thanks we servants three.”

“At this time where day meets night, we embrace both dark and light,” Eamon continued, not sure where the words had come from.

“We will learn to stand and fight, to use our gifts for the right and the white,” Teagan added.

“In this place and hour, we open to our given power. From now till ever it will be free. As we will, so mote it be.”

The fire shot up, a tower, red, orange, gold, with a heart of burning blue. A thousand voices whispered in it, and the ground shook. Then the world seemed to sigh.

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