Yet again the god threatened Talamh, and the worlds beyond it. And once again the Fey, led by the taoiseach, defended. The Fey drove him back, but with his dark magicks, with his black sword, the god killed the son he’d made.
So another time for mourning, and another time of choosing.
A young boy, mourning the taoiseach as he had mourned his own father, lifted the sword from the lake, took up the staff.
While the boy grew into a man, one who sat in the Chair of Justice in the Capital or helped his brother and sister with their farm in the valley, while he flew over Talamh on his dragon and trained for the battle all knew would come, the daughter lived in the world of man.
There, with her mother’s fear and resentment, she was taught to step back and never forward, to look down rather than up, to fold her hands instead of reach. She lived a quiet life that brought little joy, and there knew nothing of magicks. Her bright came from a friend who was a brother in all but blood and in a man who stood as a mother of her heart.
She dreamed, sometimes of more and different, but too often her dreams came blurred and dark. And in her heart lived a sorrow for the father she believed had left her.
One day a door opened for her. She made a choice, this woman who’d been taught so rigidly not to risk, not to step forward, not to reach. She traveled across the ocean to Ireland in hopes of finding her father and finding herself. In her travels she found a love for the place, for the green and the mists and the hills.
In a cottage by a bay, she explored those dreams of more, and reached out for those even as she reached in to find herself. One day, she came upon a tree deep in the forest that seemed to grow from a stand of rock. She climbed onto the long, thick branches.
And stepped out of the world she knew and into the world of her birth.
Her magicks stirred awake, as did her memories, aided by the grandmother who loved and had longed for her, by the faerie who’d been her friend in childhood, and by the boy—now a man—who had lifted the sword from the lake.
She learned of her father’s death, and mourned him. Of her grandmother’s sacrifice, and loved her. She discovered her powers and the joy in them. And though she feared, she learned of her place in Talamh,the threat of the dark god who was her blood, so she trained to fight with magicks, with sword, with fist.
As weeks turned to months, she, like her father, lived in two worlds. In the cottage she pursued her dreams; in Talamh, she honed her powers and trained for battle.
She allowed herself to love the one duty bound to Talamh, found the courage she wore as a symbol on her wrist. She embraced the wonders of the Fey, the winged faeries, the blurring speed of elves, the transformation of Weres, and more.
When evil came to Talamh, threatening it and all, she wielded fist and sword and magicks against it. She killed what came to destroy the light, faced down the darkest of magicks with that light.
So she became what she had been born to become.
But this was not an ending.
CHAPTER ONE
After what came to be known as the Battle of the Dark Portal, Breen stayed in the Capital for three weeks. The first days were as painful as any she’d known as she helped treat the wounded, helped bring in the dead from blood- and ash-soaked battlegrounds.
She held Morena as her oldest friend wept and wept and wept over the loss of her brother. She did her best to comfort Phelin’s parents, his pregnant wife, his brother and his brother’s family, his grandparents even as her own grief cut like a blade.
She’d only just remembered him, only just seen him again after so many years, and now he was lost, killed defending Talamh against the forces unleashed by her grandfather.
She stood with the family at the Leaving, clutching Morena’s left hand while Harken held her right.
Her friend’s grief rolled through her like a tidal wave as Phelin’s ashes, and so many others, flew back over the sea to the urns held by loved ones.
She held Morena close before her friend and Harken flew back to the valley. And knowing their sorrow, watched Finola and Seamus, hands linked, spread their wings before following.
With Keegan busy with council meetings and patrols, she visited the grieving until she was so full of their sorrow, she wondered she didn’t drown in tears.
After the first week, she pushed Marco to go back to Fey Cottage.
Under his trim goatee, his jaw set. “I’m staying with my girl.”
Since she’d expected that response, she’d prepared for it. Whilethey stood on the bridge below the castle, watching her Irish water spaniel, Bollocks, swim and splash in the water, she hooked an arm with Marco’s—her closest friend, she thought, one who had always, would always stand by her. And who’d proven it by leaping into another world with her.
“Your girl’s fine.”
“Not nearly. You’re worn out, Breen, taking on so much.”
“Everyone’s taking on, Marco. You—”