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“No thanks is necessary. We are of Talamh. Wine for the daughter,” she shouted, and, knowing her duty, Breen sat on the ground outside Sul’s hut. “It’s kind of ya to come, to take yer time to see me.”
“Your burn’s healed well.”
“With yer help.”
Breen accepted the cup. “And you’re well otherwise?”
“Strong and well, and so is this gift of a child, though he’s put me off my mead. Ya have my permission.”
“Thank you.” Reaching out, Breen laid a hand on Sul and the child. Then closed her eyes, sighed. “Strong and well and bright. I had reasons inside me to know the strong and well and bright stirring in his mother.”
She looked back as Bollocks raced tirelessly after the stick the kids took turns—more or less—tossing. “And to see young, happy faces. I can’t stay long now. I have duties. But when I come again, I’ll bring sweets to trade.”
“Yer always welcome here.” Sul smiled. “And so are the sweets.”
She felt lighter when she left, and flew to the farm a solid hour earlier than expected.
She noticed first the targets set up near the wooded area well behind the house. So Keegan planned for archery training, which she found very slightly preferable to work with the sword. What she didn’t notice as she landed was anyone.
No Harken in the field or Morena, no kids out playing or Keegan. Dismounting, stroking a hand over Lonrach’s scales, she listened to the quiet.
Some horses grazing, but none in the paddocks. Sheep, cows, and now listening closer, the rutting of pigs, the hum of chickens.
She thought of the first time she’d stepped into Talamh—stumbled in, she corrected. The quiet, much like this, but with Harken singing as he walked behind a plow and plow horse.
Not even a year ago, she realized, though it felt like a lifetime. It felt like her life the way Philadelphia never had.
Whatever happened with that life, she’d have no regrets, as it had given her what she’d searched for when she’d titled her blog.
She’d found herself.
“And so much more,” she murmured with one hand on the sassy topknot of her dog, the other on the smooth scales of her dragon.
For a moment, she pressed her cheek to Lonrach’s sinuous neck. He’d fly to the mountaintop, to Dragon’s Nest. She felt that from him. And she had only to call to bring him back.
“We’d go with you if we could.”
But she stepped back. He turned his head, those amber eyes bright on hers. Then he rose up and up, shimmering red against the blue, and soared through the layers of clouds.
She turned toward the house, but Bollocks scampered away, raced toward the stables and back, away and back.
“Okay then, the stables it is.”
She walked away from the house over grass thick and springy and still wet from the days of rain. As she got closer, she saw the stable doors stood open, and she heard singing from inside.
She took it for Harken, who often sang as he worked, but realized even before she got to the open doors, Keegan sang, and sang softly and beautifully, in Talamhish.
She smelled hay, manure, sweat, leather, felt the contentment of the pregnant mare, Eryn, in a near stall as she stood half dreaming. She felt pleasure from Merlin, two stalls down. And the slyness of a pair of barn cats, waiting for a mouse to chance a race to the bit of dropped grain it coveted.
To her regret, the singing stopped when Bollocks raced ahead of her.
“Come to visit, have you?” Keegan greeted the dog with a rare and easy cheer. “And timed it well, as we’re barely back from a long, hard ride.”
He stood, legs spread, boots and trousers muddy, his duster, splattered as well, tossed over the open stall door. His hair, windswept, fell past his collar as he ran a brush over Merlin’s flank.
He looked happy, Breen thought, a man thoroughly pleased with the mud and the work.
“And brought your lady as well, I see. You’re early for a change of things.”
