Norsemen cracked and split and were torn asunder each in its turn. Later, children found strange and wondrous objects cast up on the shore. An armlet wrought with snakes and dogs, curiously patterned. A necklace in the shape of a tiny, lethal axe threaded on twisted wire. A bronze bowl. The shaft of an oar, fine-fashioned. The body of a man with pale skin and long, plaited hair the color of wheat at Lugnasad. So, there was no Viking settlement in our cove. After that my father was revered and protected, a man who could do no wrong. When my mother died they grieved with him. All the same, they gave him a wide berth.
All that long day my father stayed in the workroom with the door bolted. When at last he emerged to take up the plateful of food and eat it abstractedly, not noticing it had gone cold waiting for him, he looked pale and tired. Sitting by the remnants of my small cooking fire, he picked at the congealing fish and had nothing to say. Fiacha had followed him and sat on a ledge above, staring at me. I scowled back.
"Best go to bed, daughter," my father said, and coughed harshly. "I'm not good company tonight."
"Father, you're sick." I stared with alarm as he struggled for breath. "You need help. A physic, at least."
"Nonsense." His expression was grim. "There's nothing wrong with me. Go on now, off to bed with you. This will pass. It's nothing."
He had not convinced me in the slightest.
"Father, please tell me what's wrong."
He gave a brief laugh. It was not a happy sound. "Where could one begin? Now, enough of this. I'm weary. Good night, Fainne."
So I was dismissed, and I left him there, unmoving, staring into the heart of the dying fire. As I walked away to my chamber, the sound of his coughing followed me, echoing stark through the underground caverns.
She arrived one morning late in autumn, while Father was away fetching water. I made my way out, hearing her calling from the entrance. We had few visitors. But there she was; an old lady wrapped in shawls, trudging along on foot with never a bag or basket to her name. Her face was all wrinkled and her eyes so sunken you could scarce see what color they were. She had a crown of disheveled white hair and a very loud voice.
"Well, come on, girl! Invite me in. Don't tell me I wasn't expected. What's Ciaran playing at?"
She bustled past me and on down the tunnel toward the workroom as if the place belonged to her. I trotted after, hoping my father would not be too long. Suddenly she whirled back to face me, quicker than any old lady had the right to move, and now she was gazing intently into my eyes, as if assessing me.
"Know who I am, do you?"
"Yes, Grandmother," I said, for although she seemed quite different from the elegant woman I remembered, I could feel the magic seeping from every part of her, powerful, ancient, and it was plain to me who she must be.
"Hmm. You've grown, Fainne." Clearly unimpressed, she turned her back on me and continued her confident progress through the darkened passages of the Honeycomb. Before the great door of the workroom, she halted. She put her hand out and gave a push. The door did not budge. Carven from solid oak, and set in a heavy frame which fitted tightly within its arch of stone, this entry was sealed by iron bolts and by words of power. My father guarded his knowledge closely. The old woman pushed again.
"You can't go in there," I said, alarmed. "My father doesn't let anyone go in. Just him, and sometimes me. You'll have to wait."
"Wait?" She lifted her brows and gave an arch smile. On her ancient features, it looked hideous. Her eyes bored through me, as if she wished to read my thoughts. "Has your father taught you this trick, how to come out of a room and leave it locked from the inside?"
I nodded, scowling.
"And how to unlock such a door?"
"You needn't think I'm going to open it for you," I told her, my voice growing sharp with anger at her
Alissa Callen
Mary Eason
Carey Heywood
Mignon G. Eberhart
Chris Ryan
Boroughs Publishing Group
Jack Hodgins
Mira Lyn Kelly
Mike Evans
Trish Morey