There was a pause that went on just a beat too long for comfort.
“And you, Fin.” Branna broke the bread she’d barely touched in half, took a bite. “When you can.”
“I’ll keep my schedule loose as I can.”
“And all of that, all of us, will be enough,” Connor determined, and went back to his stew.
6
HE DREAMED OF THE BOY, AND SAT WITH HIM IN THE flickering light of a campfire ringed with rough gray stones. The moon hung full, a white ball swimming in a sea of stars. He smelled the smoke and the earth—and the horse. Not the Alastar that had been or was now, but a sturdy mare that stood slack-hipped as she dozed.
On a branch above the horse, the hawk guarded.
And he heard the night, all the whisperings of it in the wind.
The boy sat with his knees drawn in, and his chin upon them.
“I was sleeping,” he said.
“And I. Is this your time or mine?”
“I don’t know. But this is my home. Is it yours?”
Connor looked toward the ruins of the cabin, over to the stone marking Sorcha’s grave. “It’s ours, as it was hers. What do you see there?”
Eamon looked toward the ruins. “Our cabin, as we left it the morning my mother sent us away.”
“As you left it?”
“Aye. I want to go in, but the door won’t open for me. I know my mother’s not there, and we took all she told us to take. And still I want to go in as if she’d be there, by the fire waiting for me.”
Eamon picked up a long stick, poked at the fire as boys often do. “What do you see?”
It would hurt the boy’s heart to tell him he saw a ruin overgrown. And a gravestone. “I see you’re in your time, and I in mine. And yet . . .” He reached out, touched Eamon’s shoulder. “You feel my hand.”
“I do. So we’re dreaming, but not.”
“Power rules this place. Your mother’s and, I fear, Cabhan’s as well. We hurt him, you and I, so he brings no power here tonight. How long ago for you since we met?”
“Three weeks and five days more. For you?”
“Less. So the time doesn’t follow. Are you well, Eamon? You and your sisters?”
“We went to Clare, and we made a little cabin in the woods.” His eyes gleamed as he looked toward his home again. “We used magick. Our hands and backs as well, but we thought if we used magick we’d be safer. And dryer also,” he added with a ghost of a smile. “Brannaugh’s done some healing as we traveled, and now that we’re there. We have a hen for eggs, and that’s a fine thing, and we can hunt—all but Teagan, who can’t use the arrow on the living. It hurts her heart to try, but she tends the horses and the hen. We’ve traded a little—labor and healing and potions for potatoes and turnips, grain and such. We’ll plant our own when we can. I know how to plant and tend and harvest.”
“Come to me if you can, when you have need. It might be I can get you food, or blankets, whatever you need.”
Some comfort, Connor thought, for a sad young boy so far from home.
“Thank you for that, but we’re well enough, and have coin Ailish and Bardan gave us. But . . .”
“What? You’ve only to ask.”
“Could I have something of yours? Some small thing to take with me? I’ll trade you.” Eamon offered a stone, a cobble of pure white cupped like an egg in his palm. “It’s just a stone I found, but it’s a pretty one.”
“It is. I don’t know what I have.” Then he did, and reached up to take the thin leather strap with its spear of crystal from around his neck.
“It’s blue tiger eye—but also called hawk’s eye or falcon’s eye. My father gave it to me.”