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The old healer opened his eyes as his hands began to float, delicate as butterfly wings, over the gash. With Marco’s hand in hers, she felt that power, the spreading warmth of it.
“Now, of course he will. Young and strong, isn’t he, our Marco, and the Daughter herself began the mending. Leave it to me now, leave it to me. Con, I’ll need a potion here for the loss of blood and the shock of it.”
“Thank you. I need to go help. Some are too close to the station. Bollocks, stay with Marco. Stay. Protect.”
“Daughter, you should sit a moment, regain your strength after the healing you’ve done.”
“I can’t. My grandmother.”
When she ran out, she opted for her wand rather than the sword, because the old man wasn’t wrong. Her physical strength had waned.
She ran down the road, one she’d walked so many times over the last year, and saw her help wasn’t needed.
Marg and Sedric stood alone now with the others fanning out to the fields after retreating enemy. And the enemy dead lay in the road.
She started to call out to ask her grandmother if she’d come help the old healer with Marco.
It happened so fast. In the blink of an eye, in the flash of an instant.
Marg turned, had a moment to look at Breen with relief, to lay a hand over her heart to show it.
The fog swirled at her back, and Yseult stepped out of it to hurl a stream of power, red, vicious, sharp, at Marg’s back. Cat quick, Sedric spun between, and with his arms wrapped tight around her, shielded Marg with his body.
He took the killing blow.
Even as Breen cried out, struck back, the fog swirled. Yseult was gone, and Sedric lay on the road, Marg dropping down to cradle him.
“No, no, no. My love. My life.”
“We’ll fix it.” Though she knew no power could, Breen threw herself down beside them. “Together, Nan.”
Marg only shook her head, tears raining down, and lifted Sedric’s hand to her cheek when he couldn’t lift it.
He said, “Marg.”
“I’m here,mo chroí. I’m here.”
The fingers lay limp in Breen’s hand when she took it, but tried tocurl with hers. “My beauties. Marg,” he said again, and died in her arms on the road near the cottage where they’d made their life.
Marg’s keening wail rose into the air, seemed to shake the sky. Beneath her and her dead love, the ground quaked.
“How much, how much will she take? She will not live out this day, I swear it. I swear to the gods, dark and light, she will not live out this day.”
“I’m sorry, so sorry.” Shaking with her own sobs, Breen wrapped her arms around Marg.
“He died for me, and for Talamh.” Rocking him, rocking him, Marg pressed her lips to his silver hair. “For so long we lived for each other, and Talamh. She took him from me, as they took my son. And I will have justice.”
She lowered to lay her lips on Sedric’s, then just wept with him in her arms.
“You can’t stay here. I’m going to get help, to take him away from the road. I’ll get help, Nan.”
She’d barely run three feet when the fog surrounded her. Dimly, she heard Marg cry out.
So this is how it would be, she thought, cold and calm. She’d meant to kill Marg, out of petty rivalry, and to distract, and had killed instead the one who’d been a father to her father, a grandfather to her.
Yes, she thought, there would be justice.
“Show yourself, Yseult.”
