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for his woman. For the Dark Witch he loved more than his life.
    When the wolf leaped out of the dark, he barely had time to clear his sword from its sheath. Daithi struck out, but cut through only air as the horse reared. Fog rose like gray walls, trapping him, blocking his men.
    He fought, but the wolf sprang over the blade, time after time, snapping out with its jaws, swiping viciously with claws only to vanish into the fog. Only to charge out from it again.
    She flew to reach him, soaring over those hills again, across the water.
    She knew when those jaws tore, knew when the blood spilled from his heart—from hers. Her tears fell like rain, washing away the fog. Crying his name, she dropped to the ground beside him.
    She tried her strongest spell, her most powerful charm, but his heart would not beat again.
    As she clasped Daithi’s hand in hers, cried to the goddess for mercy, she heard the wolf laugh in the dark.
    * * *
    BRANNAUGH SHIVERED IN SLEEP. DREAMS STALKED HER, FULL of blood and snarls and death. She struggled to outpace them, to break free. She wanted her mother, wanted her father, wanted the sun and warmth of spring.
    But clouds and cold covered her. The wolf stepped out of the fog and into her path. And its fangs dripped red and wet.
    On a muffled cry she shoved up on her pallet and clutched her amulet. Curling her knees up, she hugged them hard, swiped her teary face against her thighs to dry them. She wasn’t a babe to weep over bad dreams.
    It was past time to wake Eamon, and then hope to sleep more calmly in her own cot.
    She turned her head first to check on her mother, and saw the chair empty. Knuckling her eyes, she called softly for her mother as she started to rise.
    And she saw Sorcha lying on the floor between the fire and the loft ladder, still as death.
    “Ma! Ma!” Terror seized her as she sprang over to drop at her mother’s side. Hands shaking, she turned Sorcha over to cradle her mother’s head in her lap. Saying her name over and over like a chant.
    Too white, too still, too cold. Rocking, Brannaugh acted without thought or plan. When the heat surged through her, she poured it into her mother. Those shaking hands pressed hard, hard on Sorcha’s heart as her own head fell back, as her eyes glazed and fixed. The black smoke of them pulled for the light and shot arrows of it into her mother.
    The heat poured out, the cold poured in, until shuddering, she slumped forward. Sky and sea revolved; light and dark swirled. Pain such as she’d never known sliced through her belly, stabbed into her heart.
    Then was gone, leaving only exhaustion.
    From somewhere far away, she heard her hound baying.
    “No more, no more.” Sorcha’s voice croaked out, harsh and weak. “Stop. Brannaugh, you must stop.”
    “You need more. I will find more.”
    “No. Do as I say. Quiet breaths, quiet mind, quiet heart. Breath, mind, heart.”
    “What’s wrong? What happened?” Eamon came flying down the ladder. “Ma!”
    “I found her. Help me, help me get her to bed.”
    “No, not bed. No time for it,” Sorcha said. “Eamon, let Kathel in, and wake Teagan.”
    “She’s waked, she’s here.”
    “Ah, there’s my baby. Not to fret.”
    “There’s blood. Your hands have blood.”
    “Aye.” Burying her grief, Sorcha stared at her hands. “’Tisn’t mine.”
    “Fetch a cloth, Teagan, and we’ll wash her.”
    “No, not a cloth. The cauldron. Fetch my candles, and book, and the salt. All the salt we have. Build up the fire, Eamon, and Brannaugh make my tea—make it strong.”
    “I will.”
    “Teagan, be a good girl now and pack up what food we have.”
    “Are we going on a journey?”
    “A journey, aye. Feed the stock, Eamon—aye, it’s early yet, but feed them and well, pack all the oats you can for Alastar.”
    She took the cup from Brannaugh, drank deep, drank all. “Now, go pack your things, your clothes, blankets. You’ll take the sword, the dagger, all the coin, the jewels my