Amused, Connor poured whiskey all around, lifted his glass, tapped it to Meara’s. “Whether we’re victorious or buggered, there’s no five others I’d rather stand with. So fuck it all. Sláinte.”
And they drank.
* * *
THEY HAD WORK TO DO AND PLENTY OF IT. BRANNA BARELY left her workshop. If her nose wasn’t in a spell book—Sorcha’s, her great-grandmother’s, her own—she was at her work countertesting potions or writing spells.
When the life around them allowed, Connor joined her, or Iona or Fin. Meara found herself in the position of fetching, carrying, cooking—or splitting that chore with Boyle.
As often as she could she pulled one of them out for sword practice.
And all watched the woods, the fields, the roads for any sign.
“It’s been too quiet.” Meara easily parried Connor’s advance on one of the rare occasions she managed to drag him away from work or witchcraft.
“He’s watching, and waiting.”
“That’s just it, isn’t it? He’s waiting. I’ve barely seen a shadow of him for days now. He’s keeping his distance. He’s waiting for us to make the move as he knows we’ve one to make.”
She thrust, feinted, then swung up, nearly disarming him.
“You’re not paying attention in the least,” she complained. “If these blades weren’t charmed I could’ve sliced your ear off.”
“Then I’d only half hear your voice, and that would be a pity.”
“We should go at him, Connor.”
“We’ve a plan, Meara. Patience.”
“It’s not about patience, but strategy.”
“Strategy, is it?” He twirled his free hand, stirred a little cyclone of air. When she glanced toward it, he moved in, and had his sword to her throat. “How’s that?”
“Well, if you’re after cheating—”
“And Cabhan will play nicely, of course.”
“Point taken.” She stepped back. “What I’m saying is we should feint.” She jabbed, shifted, jabbed again. “Make him think we’ve gone at him, let him score a point or two. He’ll think we’ve made our move, so he won’t expect it when we do.”
“Hmm. That’s . . . interesting. Have you anything in mind?”
“You’re the witch, aren’t you, so you and your like would have to come up with the ritual of it.”
Lowering her sword, she worked through what she’d only half baked in her head.
“But what if we did it near here—near the cottage where we could retreat, as retreat would be part of it. Let him think he’s routed us.”
“That’s a hard swallow, but I see where you’re going. Come on then.” He grabbed her hand, pulled her into the workshop where Branna funneled a pale blue liquid into a slim bottle. Iona crushed herbs with mortar and pestle.
“Meara’s an idea.”
Eyebrows drawn together, Branna focused on the liquid sliding gracefully into the bottle. “I’m still working on the last idea that’s come around.”
“It’s perfect, Branna.” Iona stopped as Branna slid a crystal stopper into the bottle.
“And how many dream spells for six, and their guides, have you cast?”
“This will be my first.” But Iona smiled. “And it’s perfect. You should have seen the stars,” she told Connor and Meara. “Tiny blue stars rising up, circling around the cauldron as she finished it.”