He could listen to the day wake around him, wait patiently for the fish to take his bait and eat the oatcake he’d taken from his cousin’s kitchen.
And he could find himself again.
The river, the quiet, the gentle rock of the boat reminded him of the last truly happy day he’d had with his mother and sisters.
She’d looked well, he remembered, after how pale and strained she had looked over the long, icy winter. They were, all of them, counting the days until Bealtaine, and his father’s return. They’d sit around the fire then, so Eamon had thought, eating cakes and tea sweetened with honey while they listened to his father’s tales of the raids and the hunting.
They would feast, so he had thought, and his mother would be well again.
So he’d believed, that day on the river when they’d fished and laughed, and all thought of how soon their father would be home.
But he’d never come, for Cabhan had used his dark magicks to slay Daithi the brave. And Sorcha, the Dark Witch—even though she’d burned him to ash, he’d killed her. Killed her and somehow still existed.
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.”