Page 55 of Keldori By Daybreak

“It’s fine. You’re doing a good job.”

A splash drew my attention back to the onchú as it returned to the lake.

“Looks like it got bored.”

“Maybe.” Ciarán kept his eyes trained on the water where the onchú had disappeared. “The first Grimguard had an onchú.”

“Darragh, right?” I remembered. “Your distant grandpa or whatever.”

“Distant uncle, but yes.”

The water rippled and revealed the sleek green head of the onchú as it returned to shore with a trout in its mouth. It shook water off its pelt and dropped the fish next to Ciarán’s head before padding a respectable distance away and sitting back on its massive haunches.

“I think that’s for you.” I nodded at the fish.

Ciarán stared at the onchú where it sat with water rolling off its fur.

“Darragh was the first of us to ever watch over your grandmother,” Ciarán said. The onchú cocked its head at the name, and Ciarán’s grip on my hand tightened. “It’s said he only ever left her glacier once, to save his kidnapped niece.”

“Your grandma?”

“If you go back enough generations, yes. He saved her after catching up with her captors south of the mountains, but fell through the ice on the lake. His onchú went in after him, but neither were recovered, and the lake froze over for the next several centuries.”

I looked back at the lake. It had been frozen just weeks ago.

Ciarán frowned at the onchú and let go of my hand to extend it towards the beast.

“Darragh’s onchú, her name was Una.” The onchú stood and wagged her tail. “Are you Una?”

The onchú crept forward and pressed her nose against Ciarán’s hand to sniff his palm. She huffed, fell to her belly, and extended her head to rest on Ciarán’s arm.

“It’s the same onchú?” I asked.

“They can live for centuries and are perfectly at home under the water. They’re rare, but when they choose a Magician, they’ll supposedly watch over that Magician’s family for generations.”

“Thank Skal for that, otherwise you would’ve drowned.” I sat back and looked at the fish. “Any idea how to cook that?”

“Scale it, gut it, stick it over the coals.”

“Right. Easy.”

My stomach churned at the raw fish smell, but I kept my face even as Ciarán instructed me through the grisly task, refusing to let him see my disgust at dismantling the fish. Besides, we needed the food, and I didn’t want to risk offending the onchú by not eating the fish she had brought.

And she seemed intelligent enough to be capable of offense. She watched my work with what I assumed was polite interest, tracking my movements from my first awkward attempt at descaling the fish and all the way to pulling it out of the coals of my fire.

Ciarán was quiet except for his murmured instructions and his buzzing, indistinct thoughts rattling against my skull. The onchú kept her chin on his outstretched hand until I helped him into a sitting position to better eat his slab of charred trout.

I choked back my portion, doing my best not to let the fish linger long enough on my tongue to taste it, but my hands still reeked of scales and guts.

Ciarán ate his more carefully. His face was too passive for him to be savoring the meal, but he didn’t seem upset by the taste either. Then I remembered his excellent pain tolerance.

“Sorry it’s burnt,” I said. “I’ve never cooked a fish before.”

“It’s fine. Thank you, Wren.” He offered a rare smile over the fish, but something behind me caught his eye, and the expression slid from his face as he staggered to his feet. “You! I’m going to kill you!”

I twisted around, ready to fight whatever enemy had found us.

It was Orla, wide-eyed and dirt-stained, that stared down at us from the lip of the rocks that towered overhead.