Irish Moon (2 page)

“Quinlan appears to be ready for the call of
that duty,” Finn answered, the lisp of his feline mouth coating an
extra layer of sarcasm. Once away from the keep, Finn made up for
his forced quiet by having opinions and sharing them at every
opportunity.

“You are a vile beast,” Breanne said and
dropped the enchanted cat inherited with her third year of
lessons.

He landed expertly and trotted after her.
“He’s perfectly enamored with you. Anyone can see that.” Finn’s
tone brimmed with gloating sarcasm.

“Oh? Even besotted, enchanted cats?” Breanne
kicked a rock his way, knowing it would miss. She hated how right
Finn was.

“France did well by him, I think,” Finn said.
“He’s gotten some pluck since he returned.”

She’d hardly name the silly doe-eyed look as
pluck. But, it seemed the only one Quinlan bestowed on her since
his autumn return from six years abroad. Finn kept in stride with
her, pouncing from rock to grassy dirt with springy ease.

“And what would you know about it?”

She knelt at a bush and retrieved the chalice
hidden there. Setting the bundle of flowers down, she bent over the
stream and captured water into it. Its encrusted rubies and
sapphires warmed and brightened in the sunlight.

“You’re not my first mistress,” Finn said,
teetering on a rock to dip his mouth to the water. “Do recall that
I did exist long before you came into my life.”

Breanne resisted the strong urge to push him
in.

“Pluck. I would have used a more explicit
word, myself.” They’d each grown up during the six years and
apparently his feelings for her were now adult in nature. “Brute
comes to mind.”

Not a fortnight ago, he’d cornered her
outside her chamber and kissed her soundly, pressing into her. His
attraction was more than obvious, stabbing her hip. Although a curt
slap had ended his assault, it had done little to dissuade him
since.

“Mayhap he’ll ask for you.”

“Bite your tongue. I would rather marry
you.”

“How terribly flattering.
But, no
t
possible
since you cannot see fit to lift the curse, and after last night’s
miserable failure, I don’t see it happening anytime
soon.”

Breanne ignored the jab and his sour tone.
She told herself again that she had so much more to learn, that it
was still early to be expecting the kind of magick he needed to
come readily. As Heremon always told her, magick takes more than
talent. It takes persistence and study and practice, practice,
practice.

“Hush now, you old lecher, we need to focus,”
she said.

If a cat could roll its eyes, Finn nearly
did, but quieted nonetheless. Craggy hillside met lush valley,
carpeted with heather and grass. The gurgle of water grew louder.
The grove lay ahead. Breanne paused at the base and breathed in a
gulp of air to clear her head. If she joined Heremon preoccupied
with Quinlan or the conversation between her mother and Niall, he
might send her right back where she came from.

Likely, Finn was saving the rest of his
teasing for the jaunt home, as usual.

Breanne exhaled, filling her heart with love
and asked the goddess and ancestors for a blessing. She thanked the
land and trees and asked for their welcome.

Spring leaves shivered under the cool
answering breeze and the two entered the grove in silence. The
trees and bushes blocked out the cool air and warm light, giving
way to a dim comfort. The place never lost its spell on her. Any
doubts that ever grew about her choosing this path in life shrank
away here.

She approached the largest oak and knelt
before it, spilling the water out of the chalice onto its roots
with a silent prayer. Finn licked himself, lapping loudly. Breanne
finished her offering and glared at her companion.

“For a victim of curse,” she said. “You are
certainly more and more insolent. Is it so much trouble to be
reverent toward that which will aid your release?”

Finn yawned.

Breanne shook her head and continued to
Heremon’s altar. The old Druid stood with his eyes closed and his
face tilted skyward, one hand on the large stone slab. Seven white
candles’ flames lit the small clearing. Heremon’s dull athame lay
at rest, on a folded red wool square, with the white handle
pointing south, blade north.

Breanne sat before him and waited for
acknowledgement. Finn trotted after a flitting object that she
hoped wasn’t a fairy. Of all the magick this grove held, a fairy
would be the best to see true. All things secret, Heremon promised,
would reveal themselves in time. With less than two years remaining
in her tutelage, she couldn’t see why all the things she worked for
still failed to happen.

“We have much work to do,” Heremon said and
joined her on the mossy forest floor. “I have received the prophecy
and we must prepare. A stranger will join us, become one of
us.”

His pale eyes bounced as
he spoke. Was he still in
a
trance? Her cleared head flooded with
unease.

Breanne watched and waited
for him to continue. Her stomach tightened up with the same sick
feeling from before when she had listened in shadows to Niall
O’Donnell’s words.
A husband will protect
her.

She would protect herself.

“He is yours to keep,” Heremon said. “See the
emeralds, know the key.”

Breanne’s mind halted. Her
heart skipped. She knew better than to read the literal into any
vision’s meaning
,
but several ideas formed in her head unbidden. Surely, his
words could not be linked to Niall’s.

Heremon had assured her that once she began
seeing, she would better understand the nature of second sight and
that it in fact made the future less clear than before. But, how
could foreknowledge not help in life? She hoped to soon know the
truth for herself.

“Tell no one.” Heremon’s hands shot out,
clenched her knees. She moved back, startled. His eyes danced,
looking through her. “Protect him.”

Another presage, or did
the first continue? Protect what?
It would
be pointless to ask as he would not recall his words. He never
did.
By the look of his eyes, it wouldn’t
be long. The cloudiness in them receded, the shaking slowed. Within
a moment, Heremon’s irises returned to dark green and focused on
her face, adjusting to the light.

“Breanne.” He blinked at her with surprise.
“When did you arrive?” He let go of her knees as though they’d not
been touched at all.

“But a moment ago. You greeted me, Heremon.
Do you not remember?”

He looked past her and tilted his head as
though listening to the wind.

“The storm last night,” he said.

“Yes, it has passed already. The sun shines
clear with not a single cloud.”

He looked back at her, his forehead wrinkled
with trouble. “I’ve promised you a lesson, haven’t I?”

Not again. She nodded patiently. His graying
red beard was a tangled unkempt mess and helped distract from the
fraying, torn blue cloak he preferred. Distraction seemed his
nature of late and still he had managed to become the wisest,
oldest Druid priest in all of Ireland, well, leastwise the north of
it.

“We are scheduled to review my Grimoire, my
most recent attempt to free Finn, and you were to give me five new
herbals.” She left out her least favorite, gathering, hoping he’d
forget, and refused to feel bad for taking advantage of his
daze.

“Yes, yes. We haven’t much
time
,
though.”
His voice faded with each word. “We will meet again tonight at the
spring. The moon is waxing to fullness. The end of it
nears.”

Breanne scowled, not only because he seemed
about to cut their lesson short, but because his words weren’t
making much sense.

“The end of the moon? Not near at all,
Heremon. For if the lunar cycle has a fortnight to wane….”

“What’s this? Are you still here, then? Off
with you. We mustn’t tarry.” He shooed her with his hands, standing
briskly.

Breanne’s frown deepened. Heremon was truly
out of sorts. With last night’s failed experiment and a week since
the last lesson, which she was hardly able to sneak away for with
of all her mother’s nuptial arrangements, she couldn’t help feeling
keenly disappointed.

She stood, ready to argue for at least an
hour of his time. She needed it. With all the husband discussion
and wedding plans and changing friendships in her life, the one
thing that kept her levelheaded was her Ovate training.

Breanne took a deep breath and squared her
shoulders. Heremon blew out his candles and tossed each into his
deerskin bag, dropping one in his haste.

“Heremon, I can see you
have important things to attend to and I can’t
relay
how truly appreciative I am of
all your time and wisdom, but I beg of you, please allow me my
lesson,” she said, trying to sound at once imploring and
firm.

He didn’t reply as he scooped up the fallen
candle, shoved it inside and cinched the drawstring.

“At least tell me of the herbals,” she said,
her hands wringing, voice trembling. Breanne bit her lip. She was
not going to tear up.

Tears would seem weak, desperate even, and
though she was weak with desperation, such displays would not build
Heremon’s confidence in her. The tolerance of a woman learning
anything, let alone studying the old ways, lessened with every
passing year and she considered it her duty to never appear
unsuitable because of an inability to control her emotions.

Heremon walked past her, his gaze on the
mossy ground, head tilted. His mouth moved silently.

“I will write down the herbals and study them
for our meeting tonight,” she said to his back, following after
him.

He didn’t answer her, didn’t even glance up
and acknowledge her. Breanne stopped and let him go. A single tear
slid down her cheek and she clenched her hands into little
fists.

“That was fast,” Finn said.

Breanne swung around and pinned him with her
eyes.

“What?” he said, a licked paw hanging
mid-air.

“He left.” She threw her hands up. “Simply
rescheduled our lesson, gathered his ceremonials, and walked away
as though I wasn’t standing right here in front of him. In all my
days and nights, I have never seen a person act so strange. Not a
soul.” She threw her hands again, letting them fall hard and heavy
against her gown.

“The man is old, Breanne. His mind likely
went soft and I assure you he was never quite right,” Finn sounded
unconcerned.

She might’ve stamped the
grassy dirt
,
but
to what good?

“I feel something terrible
may have happened,” Breanne said. “Or will. If you’d seen him,
you’d not be sitting there as though you haven’t a care in all the
world. You’d be after him and frightened.” Breanne’s voice rose
with each word
,
but the cat wouldn’t stop looking so damned unaffected or
take her seriously.

Finn blinked. “You feel?”

“Heremon had a prediction and is now
wandering about, talking to himself, as though he didn’t see me or
hear me.”

“When will you meet again?”

“He said tonight, but I am not sure he knew
what he was saying. I will not be surprised if I come tonight,
assuming I am able to sneak away with all the clansmen underfoot,
only to find the forest empty.”

“The grove is never empty,” Finn said, his
gaze fixed in the air rather than on her, tail swishing
arrogantly.

Breanne blew a stray hair from her brow. “You
know that I mean--Heremon not present. I canno’ believe he knew
what he was saying, not with the way he said it. Had you not
wandered, you’d have seen with your own eyes.”

“And I didn’t. Can we return to the keep now?
I’m hungry.”

Breanne turned around and eyed the barely
discernable path Heremon left by.

“No,” she said.

She jutted her chin upward and trounced after
the old sage, telling herself that something was very wrong and he
needed her. And if she happened to secure a quick tutorial on the
five herbals, secrets that would potentially--finally--unlock her
own potential, all the better.

The idea quickened her pulse. Her long formed
hope to practice true magick had recently taken on a desperate
feel. Instead of sheer excitement over dreams of the magickal and
wondrous accomplishments, the threat of an uncertain future loomed
like a hungry wolf in a dark corner where light used to shine.

Heremon’s path wove in and around pine and
the occasional blessed oak tree, deeper into the forest, toward the
coast. Her worry grew as her irritation with Finn dissipated. She
wished she’d grabbed the cat. She could have snatched him up and
under her arm without a scratch in seconds. If she had, she’d now
be happily arguing with him instead of fighting to keep prickling
fear at bay.

She’d not taken this path before. She knew
where Heremon lived, in theory, knew the lay of the land she’d been
born to and explored through to adult years. So there really was no
reason to be frightened. And she had her sheathed boline dagger
strapped to her thigh as well as the confidence to use it lethally
if necessary.

Thinking of the blade and imagining lifting
her skirt, retrieving it, and slashing through whomever or whatever
happened upon her in the dense foliage, worsened the quiver in her
veins. She stopped her careful tracks and palmed the sharp weapon,
paying no mind to her fingers’ slight tremble. The action helped a
bit, as did a long deeply indrawn breath and prayer to
Morrigan.

Continuing after the trail of winding
footprints and sunken moss spots that mapped Heremon’s path,
Breanne’s fingers traced the carved pattern on the dagger’s handle.
The side she felt held a pointy-tailed, horny dragon. A lion
adorned the other side, but she needed the dragon, which
represented the Otherworld, magick, to her. Mayhap its ever-elusive
magick, a protection better than any man, would aid her.