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“Spare me from that,” Larkin said with feeling. “I’ve no wish to rule. Bloody nuisance if you’re asking me. Well, he’s set, isn’t he?” He rubbed the stallion’s side. “You’re a handsome devil, that’s the truth. He needs exercise. One of us should ride him out.”
“Not today, I think. But you’re right in that. He needs a run. Still, he’s Cian’s, so it’s for him to say.”
They moved to the door, and as before, stepped out together. “That way.” Hoyt gestured. “There was an herb garden, and may still be. I haven’t walked that way as yet.”
“Moira and I have. I didn’t see one.”
“We’ll have a look.”
It sprang off the roof of the stables, so quickly Hoyt had no chance to draw his sword. And the arrow struck it dead in the heart while it was still in the air.
Ash flew as a second leaped. And a second arrow shot home.
“Would you let us have one for the sport of it!” Larkin shouted to Moira.
She stood in the kitchen doorway, a third arrow already notched. “Then take the one coming from the left.”
“For me,” Larkin shouted at Hoyt.
It was twice his size, and Hoyt started to protest. But Larkin was already charging. Steel struck steel. It clashed and it rang. Twice he saw the thing step back when Larkin’s cross glinted at him. But he had a reach, and a very long sword.
When Hoyt saw Larkin slip on the wet grass, he lunged forward. He swung the sword at the thing’s neck—and met air.
Larkin leaped up, flipped the wooden stake up, caught it neatly. “I was just throwing him off balance.”
“Nicely done.”
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“There may be more.”
“There may be,” Hoyt agreed. “But we’ll do what we came to do.”
“I’ve got your back then, if you’ve mine. God knows Moira’s got them both. This hurt it,” he added, touching the cross. “Gave it some trouble anyway.”
“They may be able to kill us, but they won’t be able to turn us while we wear them.”
“Then I’d say that’s a job well done.”
Chapter 13
There was no herb garden with its creeping thyme and fragrant rosemary. The pretty knot garden his mother had tended was now a gently rolling span of cropped green grass. It would be a sunny spot when the sky cleared, he knew. His mother had chosen it, though it hadn’t been just outside the kitchen as was more convenient, so her herbs could bask in the light.
As a child he’d learned of them from her, of their uses and their beauty while sitting by her as she weeded and clipped and harvested. She’d taught him their names and their needs. He’d learned to identify them by their scents and the shapes of the leaves, by the flowers that bolted from them if she allowed it.
How many hours had he spent there with her, working the earth, talking or just sitting in silence to enjoy the butterflies, the hum of bees?
It had been their place, he thought, more than any other.
He’d grown to a man and had found his place on the cliff in what was now called Kerry. He’d built his stone cabin, and found the solitude he’d needed for his own harvest, for his magic.
But he’d always come back home. And had always found pleasure and solace with
his mother here, in her herb garden.
Now, he stood over where it had been as he might have a grave, mourning and remembering. A flare of anger lit in him that his brother would let this go.
“This what you’re looking for then?” Larkin studied the grass, then tracked his eyes through the rain, toward the trees. “Doesn’t seem to be anything left of it.”
