Page 2 of Shadow Spell

Eamon knew it from the dreams, from the prickle down his spine. Saw the truth of it in the eyes of his sisters.

But he had that day, that bright spring day on the river to remember. Even as a fish tugged on his line, his mind traveled back, and he saw himself at five years bringing a shining fish from the dark river.

Felt that same sense of pride now.

“Ailish will be pleased.”

His mother smiled at him as he slid the fish into the pail of water to hold it fresh.

His great need brought her to him, gave him comfort. He baited his hook again as the sun warmed and began to thin the fingers of mists.

“We’ll need more than one.”

She’d said that, he remembered, that long ago day.

“Then you’ll catch more than one.”

“I’d sooner catch more than one in my own river.”

“One day you will. One day,mo chroi, you’ll return home. One day those who come from you will fish in our river, walk our wood. I promise this to you.”

Tears wanted to come, blurred his vision of her, so she wavered in front of his eyes. He willed them away, for he would see her clear. The dark hair she let fall free to her waist, the dark eyes where love lived. And the power that shone from her. Even now, a vision only, he sensed her power.

“Why could you not destroy him, Ma? Why could you not live?”

“It was not meant. My love, my boy, my heart, if I could have spared you and your sisters, I would have given more than my life.”

“You did give more. You gave us your power, almost all of it. If you’d kept it—”

“It was my time, and your birthright. I am content with that, I promise you as well.” In those thinning mists she glowed, silver-edged. “I am ever in you, Eamon the Loyal. I am in your blood, your heart, your mind. You are not alone.”

“I miss you.”

He felt her lips on his cheek, the warmth of her, the scent of her enfolding him. And for that moment, just that moment, he could be a child again.

“I want to be brave and strong. I will be, I swear it. I will protect Brannaugh and Teagan.”

“You will protect each other. You are the three. Together more powerful than I ever was.”

“Will I kill him?” For that was his deepest, darkest wish. “Will I finish him?”

“I cannot say, only that he can never take what you are. What you are, what you hold, can only be given, as I gave to you. He carries my curse, and the mark of it. All who come from him will bear it as all who come from you will carry the light. My blood, Eamon.” She turned her palm up, showed a thin line of blood. “And yours.”

He felt the quick pain, saw the wound across his palm. And joined it with his mother’s.

“The blood of the three, out of Sorcha, will lay him low, if it takes a thousand years. Trust what you are. It is enough.”

She kissed him again, smiled again. “You have more than one.”

The tug on his line brought him out of the vision.

So he had more than one.

He would be brave, he thought as he pulled the fish, flapping, out of the river. He would be strong. And one day, strong enough.

He studied his hand—no mark on it now, but he understood. He carried her blood, and her gift. These, one day, he would pass to his sons, his daughters. If it wasn’t for him to destroy Cabhan, it would be done by his blood.

But he hoped, by all the gods, it was for him.

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