“I am. I am of the three.” Branna touched the amulet with its icon of the hound she was never without—just as her counterpart did the same.
“Your brother came to us, with his woman, one night in Clare.”
“Connor, and Meara. She is a sister to me.” Now Branna touched her heart. “Here. You understand.”
“She saved my own brother from harm, shed blood for him. She is a sister to me as well.” With some wonder on her face, Sorcha’s Brannaugh looked around the kitchen. “What is this place?”
“My home. And yours for you are very welcome here. Will you sit? I would make you tea. This coffee I have would not be good for the baby.”
“It has a lovely scent. But only sit with me, cousin. Just sit for a moment. This is a wondrous place.”
Branna looked around her kitchen—tidy, lovely, as she’d designed it herself. And, she supposed, wondrous indeed to a woman from the thirteenth century.
“Progress,” she said as she sat at the kitchen table with her cousin. “It eases hours of work. Are you well?”
“I am, very well. My son comes soon. My third child. She reached out; Branna took her hand.
Heat and light, a merging of power very strong, very true.
“You will name him Ruarc, for he will be a champion.”
It brought a smile to her cousin’s face. “So I will.”
“On Samhain, we—the three and three more who are with us—battled Cabhan. Though we caused him harm, burned and bled him, we didn’t finish him. I saw you there. Your brother with a sword, your sister with a wand, you with a bow. You were not with child.”
“Samhain is yet a fortnight to come in my time. We came to you?”
“You did, at Sorcha’s cabin where we lured him, and in your time, as we shifted into it to try to trap him. We were close, but it wasn’t enough. My book—Sorcha’s book—I could show you the spell, the poison we conjured. You may—”
Brannaugh held up a hand, pressed the other to her side. “My son comes. And he pulls me back. But listen, there is a place, a holy place. An abbey. It sits in a field, a day’s travel south.”
“Ballintubber. Iona weds her Boyle there come spring. It is a holy place, a strong place.”
“He cannot go there, see there. It is sacred, and those who made us watch over it. They gave us, Sorcha’s three, their light, their hope and strength. When next you face down Cabhan, we will be with you. We will find a way. We will prevail. If it is not to be you, there will come another three. Believe, Branna of the O’Dwyers. Find the way.”
“I can do nothing else.”
“Love.” She gripped Branna’s hand hard. “Love, I have learned, is another guide. Trust your guides. Oh, he’s impatient. My child comes today. Be joyful, for he is another bright candle against the dark. Believe,” she said again, and vanished.
Branna rose, and with a thought lit a candle for the new light, the new life.
And with a sigh, accepted her alone was at an end.
So she started breakfast. She had a story to tell, and no one would want to hear it on an empty stomach. Believe, she thought—Well, she believed it was part of her lot
in life to cook for an army on nearly a daily basis.
She swore an oath that when they’d sent Cabhan to hell she’d take a holiday, somewhere warm, sunny—where she wouldn’t touch a pot, pan, or skillet for days on end.
She began to mix the batter for pancakes—a recipe new to her she’d wanted to try—and Meara came in.
Her friend was dressed for the day, a working day at the stables, in thick trousers, a warm sweater, sturdy boots. She’d braided back her bark brown hair, sent Branna a cautious look with her dark gypsy eyes.
“I promised I’d see to breakfast this morning.”
“I woke early, after a restless night. And have already had company this morning.”
“Someone’s here?”