The Becoming

“Have a care, Shana, with what you say to me here. Have a care before you make accusations unfounded and untrue. As if you say them to others, make them to others outside this room, you won’t like the consequences.”

His words shocked her, but no more than the cold look on his face, the hard ice in his eyes. “You—you threaten me?”

“I warn you. I am taoiseach, and your taoiseach tells you now to guard your words. I tell you to keep good space between yourself and Breen Siobhan O’Ceallaigh. I release you from the courtesy of offering her welcome.”

At her sides, Shana’s hands fisted until her nails dug into her palms. “You would bar me from the Welcome tonight?”

“I won’t, no, as it would bring shame on your parents. But I warn you, for their sakes and your own, keep clear of her. She’ll only be in the Capital for a short time. I trust—must trust—that whenever she returns, you’ll have settled yourself.”

“I am settled, Taoiseach.” She spoke coldly now, her face like stone. “I am well settled. And I tell you in turn, you’ll regret your alliance with such as her.”

When she turned away, he let her storm out.

Twice now, he thought, Shana had clearly shown him what she was. So he regretted, very much, his alliance with such as her.

But considered the matter closed.

He walked over to pick up the dented tankard, and holding it, studied the map of Talamh on the wall.

And there were so many things, so many far more important things to worry about than a former lover’s ire.

With Brian on duty, Marco insisted on taking Breen down to the village. The long walk pleased Bollocks—and gave him another chance to jump in the river.

And it gave Breen a chance to see life in the Capital outside the castle.

She decided people gathering around the well equaled Talamh’s version of the office watercooler. Men and women chatted away while they filled jugs and buckets. Others leaned on the well, taking their ease while they talked.

Clothes flapped on lines behind cottages; sheep and cows grazed in pastures.

She watched a man and woman unloading bricks of peat from a wagon, and a woman—ripely pregnant—carrying a basket of fall vegetables into a pub where the music of a flute piped out like laughter.

Though the air blew brisk, the sun beamed, and that combined to create an ideal autumn day. Shopkeepers brought wares out into stalls to tempt passersby with more vegetables as colorful as a carnival, baked goods and leather goods, wooden toys and bowls and spoons, trinkets and jewelry, ribbons and buttons.

Shawls and scarves, caps and sweaters hung from pegs while in the next stall a cobbler hummed as he hammered the sole of a boot into place.

“Brian says it stays pretty busy,” Marco told her. “People come in to trade or set up a stall, maybe visit the castle grounds or some of the local sights.”

“It’s all bigger than I imagined.”

And full of life, she thought. Energy, movement.

“If we have a chance to come down again, we should bring something to trade. I made a few bracelets, but I didn’t think to bring them today. I’ve got a charm bag in my pocket, and a little bag of crystals. I’ll put something more together for next time. I’d like to find something to give Nan.”

As she thought of it, she saw a woman sitting in a rocking chair. Raven-black hair piled in a loose knot on top of her head, and a pumpkin-colored shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

As she rocked, she worked snow-white wool with knitting needles and tapped one booted foot to some internal rhythm.

The sign over her head read OF THE WISE.

She paused her knitting only to crook a finger at Breen.

As Breen stepped closer, she saw the red dragon flying over the field of white wool.

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s for my great-grandchild who’ll come into the world by Yule. My twelfth she’ll be, and for each I make such a blanket so wherever they go through their life they know the dragon flies over Talamh.”

“A wonderful gift.”

“I know you,” she added, and set the knitting in the basket beside her chair. “You’ve the look of those who came before you. I, carrying in me my last child of seven, stood on the road right there when first Mairghread rode to the Capital as taoiseach. And so I stood when your father made that ride.”

She rose. “Come inside, Breen Siobhan. You and your friend and your fine dog there are welcome.”

“I don’t have anything to trade today,” Breen began as they followed the woman inside. Then she stopped, simply looked.

“You like what you see?”

“It’s wonderful. It’s a wonderful shop.” Though smaller by far, it made Breen think of the Troll cave.

“Wow.” Marco turned a circle. “It smells amazing in here.”

As he spoke, a black cat—who’d sat so still on a table Breen had taken it for a statue—leaped down. Instead of giving chase, Bollocks sat while the cat circled him.

“My Sira won’t harm your boy there. She’s only showing him who’s in charge.” With a laugh in her voice, the woman spoke to the cat in the old tongue.