She lifted her face to the sky, and Keegan thought her voice, so clear, so strong, must reach all the way to the Sea of Storms and beyond.
“In this place, in this hour, we call upon our source of power. Let the one chosen and choosing this day, honor, respect, and guard the Fey. Let the hand that lifts the sword be strong and wise and true. This, only this, your people ask of you.”
The water, pale and green with its power, began to swirl. The mists over it swayed.
“So it begins.” She lifted the staff high.
They raced toward the water. Some of the younger ones laughed or whooped as they dived, as they jumped. Those on shore cheered.
Keegan heard the din of it all as he hesitated, as his brother went into the water with a cheerful splash. He thought of his oath, thought of the hand that had gripped his in those last moments of life on this plane.
So he dived.
He’d have cursed at the cold slap of the water, but saw no point in it. He could hear others do so, or laugh, even kick their way back to the surface.
He shut off that part of him that could hear thoughts as too many of them crowded in.
He’d sworn he would take to the water this day and dive deep. That he would take up the sword if it came to his hand.
So he dived deep, deeper, remembering the times as a boy he’d done just this with his brother and sister. Children on a summer day hunting for smooth stones on the soft lake bottom.
He could see others through the water, swimming down or over or up. The lake would push them to the surface if the air ran out of their lungs, as it was promised this day no one who entered the lake would come to harm.
Still the lake moved around him, swirling, sometimes spinning. He could see the bottom now, and those smooth stones he’d gathered as a boy.
Then he saw the woman. She simply floated, so at first he thought her a mermaid. Historically the mers abstained from the ritual here. They already ruled the seas and were content with that.
Then he realized he only saw her face, her hair—red as Marg’s, but longer and streaming back in the water. Her eyes, gray as shadows in smoke, struck some chord in him that was knowing. But he didn’t know her. He knew every face in the valley, and hers wasn’t of the valley.
And yet it was.
Then, though he’d blocked himself, he heard her as clearly as he’d heard Marg on shore.
He was mine, too. But this is yours. He knew it, and so do you.
The sword all but leaped into his hand. He felt the weight of it, the power of it, the brilliance of it.
He could drop it, swim on, swim away. His choice, so the gods said, so the stories said.
He started to loosen his fingers and let that weight, that power, that brilliance slide away. He didn’t know how to lead. He knew how to fight, how to train, how to ride, how to fly. But he didn’t know how to lead others, not into battle or into peace.
The sword gleamed in his hand, a shine of silver with its carving pulsing, its single red stone flaming. As he eased his grip that shine dulled, the flame began to gutter.
And she watched him.
He believed in you.
A choice? he thought. What bollocks. Honor left no choice.
So he pointed the sword toward the surface where the sun danced in diamonds. He watched the vision—for she was nothing more than that—smile.
Who are you? he demanded.
We’re both going to have to find out.
The sword carried him straight up, an arrow from a bow.
It cleaved through the water, then the air. The roar came up as the sun struck the blade, shot its light, its power across the water.
He rode it to the thick, damp grass, then did what he knew he must. He knelt at Mairghread’s feet.
“I would give this and all it means to you,” he said, as her son had, “for there is none more worthy.”
“My time is past.” She laid a hand on his head. “And yours begins.” She took his hand, brought him to his feet.
He heard nothing, saw nothing but her. “This was my wish,” she murmured, only for him.
“Why? I don’t know how to—”
She cut him off, a kiss to his cheek. “You know more than you think.” She held out the staff. “Take what’s yours, Keegan O’Broin.”
When he took the staff, she stepped back. “And do what comes next.”
He turned. They watched him, so many faces, so many eyes watching him. He recognized what churned inside him as fear, and felt the shame of it.
The sword chose him, he thought, and he chose to rise with it. There would be no more fear.
He lifted the staff so its dragon’s heart pulsed with life.
“With this, there will be justice on Talamh for all.” Now the sword.
“With this, all will be protected. I am Keegan O’Broin. All that I am or ever will be pledges this to the valleys, the hills, the forests and ballys, to the far reaches, to every Fey. I will stand for the light. I will live for Talamh, and should the gods deem, I will die for Talamh.”
They cheered him, and through the roar of it, he heard Marg say, “Well done, lad. Well done indeed.”
So they raised him up, the young taoiseach. And a new story began.
CHAPTER ONE
PHILADELPHIA
Sitting on a bus that seemed to have a bad case of the hiccups, Breen Kelly rubbed at the drumming ache in her temple.
She’d had a bad day that came at the end (thank God!) of a bad week that had spilled out from a bad month.
Or two.
She told herself to cheer up. It was Friday, and that meant two whole days before she’d be back in the classroom struggling to teach language arts to middle schoolers.
Of course, she’d spend a chunk of those two days grading papers, doing lesson plans, but she wouldn’t be in the classroom with all those eyes on her. Some bored, some manic, a few hopeful.
No, she wouldn’t stand there feeling as inadequate and out of place as any pubescent student who’d rather be anywhere else in the universe than the classroom.
She reminded herself teaching was the most honorable of professions. Rewarding, meaningful, vital.
Too bad she sucked at it.
The bus hiccupped to the next stop. A few people got off; a few people got on.
She observed. She was good at observing because it was so much easier than participating.
The woman in the gray pantsuit, phone in hand, frazzled eyes. Single mother heading home after work, checking on her kids, Breen decided. She probably never imagined her life would be so hard.
Now, a couple of teenage boys—high-tops, knee-length Adidas shorts, earbuds. Going to meet some pals, play some H-O-R-S-E, grab some pizza, catch a flick. An age, Breen thought, an enviable age, when a weekend meant nothing but fun.
The man in black, he . . . He looked right at her, looked deep, so she cut her eyes away. He looked familiar. Why did he look familiar? The silver hair, the mane of it, made her think: college professor.
But no, that wasn’t it. A college professor getting on the bus wouldn’t make her mouth go dry or her heart hammer. She had a terrible fear he’d walk back, sit next to her.
If he did, she’d never get off the bus. She’d just keep riding, riding, going nowhere, getting nowhere, a continual loop of nothing.
She knew it was crazy, didn’t care. She surged to her feet, rushed toward the front of the bus with her briefcase slapping against her hip. She didn’t look at him—didn’t dare—but had to brush by him to make the doors. Though he stepped to the side, she felt that her arm bumped his as she passed.