“The bad man came. He killed my ponies.”
A fist of panic squeezed Sorcha’s heart. Cabhan touching her children—their bodies, their minds, their souls? It brought her unspeakable fear, unspeakable rage.
“Just a dream, my baby.” She cuddled Teagan close, rocked and soothed. “Just a dream.”
But dreams had power and risks.
“My ponies screamed, and I couldn’t save them. He set them afire, and they screamed. Alastar came and knocked the bad man down. I rode away on Alastar, but I couldn’t save the ponies. I’m afraid of the bad man in the dream.”
“He won’t hurt you. I’ll never let him hurt you. Only dream ponies.” Eyes tightly closed, she kissed Teagan’s bright, tousled hair, her cheeks. “We’ll dream of more. Green ones, and blue ones.”
“Green ponies!”
“Oh aye, green as the hills.” Snuggling, Sorcha lifted a hand, circled her finger, twirled it, twirled it until ponies—blue ones, green ones, red ones, yellow ones—danced in the air above their heads. Listening to her youngest giggle, Sorcha stored up her fears, her anger, closed them in with determination.
He would never harm her children. She would see him dead, and herself with him, before she allowed it.
“All the ponies to their oats now. And you come with me then, and we’ll break our fast as well.”
“Is there honey?”
“Aye.” The simple wish for a treat made Sorcha smile. “There’ll be honey for good girls.”
“I’m good!”
“You are the purest and sweetest of hearts.”
Sorcha gathered up Teagan, and her baby held tight, whispered in her ear. “The bad man said he would take me first as I’m the youngest a
nd weak.”
“He’ll never take you, I swear it, on my life.” She eased Teagan back so her daughter could see the truth of it in her eyes. “I swear it to you. And, my darling, weak you’re not, and never will be.”
So she fed the fire, poured honey on the bread, and made the tea and oats. They’d all need their strength for what she would do that day. What she needed to do.
Her boy came down from the loft, his hair tousled and tangled from sleep. He rubbed his eyes, sniffed the air like a hound. “I fought the black sorcerer. I didn’t run.”
Inside her breast Sorcha’s heart kicked to a gallop. “You dreamed. Tell me.”
“I was at the turn of the river where we keep the boat, and he came, and I knew him for a sorcerer, a black one because his heart is black.”
“His heart.”
“I could see in his heart, though he smiled, friendly like, and offered me some honey cake. ‘Here, lad,’ says he, ‘I’ve a fine treat for you.’ But the cake was full of worms and black blood—inside it. I could tell it was poisoned.”
“You saw inside his heart, and inside the cake, in the dream.”
“I did, I promise.”
“I believe you.” So her little man had more than she’d known.
“I said to him, ‘Eat the cake yourself, for it’s death in your hand.’ But he threw it aside, and the worms crawled out of it and burned to ashes. He thought he would drown me in the river, but I threw rocks at him. Then Roibeard came.”
“Did you call the hawk in your dream?”
“I wished for him, and he came, and he flashed out with his talons. The black sorcerer went away, like smoke in the wind. And I waked in my bed.”
Sorcha drew him close, stroked his hair.