Irish Moon by Amber Scott Page A

brimming with jars and bowls and papers and
books.
    Breanne set both candles on the long table in
the center and searched through the glass bottles. The labels were
hard to read but she found what she was looking for at last. Finn’s
mewling carried softly from outside. Her heart, no longer so numb,
ached for him. She couldn’t fathom the agony he must feel to loose
Heremon. Her own sorrow would come soon enough, she knew, and set
to grinding the herbs while she had the wherewithal to do so.
    Mixed with warmed water, she lifted the man’s
head and brought the bowl to his lips.
    “Drink,” she said as sternly as she’d ever
heard herself speak.
    He sputtered in protest,
wasting part of the mixture. Breanne used her knee to prop his
head, curled an arm around his neck and forced his mouth open. She
poured another mouthful in and covered his mouth tightly. He
coughed and choked a bit , but ingested most of the hot liquid.
    She repeated the process until the remaining
liquid was gone along with her strength. The man spoke slurring
words she didn’t understand. But he didn’t open his eyes, he
settled down.
    While she wiped a wet rag
over his face and neck, her mind worked on a strategy to retrieve
Heremon. She would leave Finn with the man, hide them in the room.
Mayhap the door could be locked. If not, she would have to hope
re-disguising it would suffice. Then she’d get back to the
O’Donnell keep, wake Quinlan, no, Niall. She would be in serious
trouble , but that
was that. It couldn’t be changed and certainly was not so important
that it took precedence to getting some men and some rope and
bringing Heremon up from that tiny little ledge.
    How could he have gotten
there? Had he gone mad and fallen? Had he been pushed? But, the
fall was not so far that he wouldn’t survive. Breanne couldn’t see
Heremon to have died of natural cause s , standing at the edge of rock,
only to then fall on his own and land so mysteriously.
    Breanne viewed the nearly
naked man on the floor. His skin was flushed with color. He had the
answers she needed. And if Niall couldn’t get them from the man,
she would find a way. She might not succeed with a
potion , but knew
a poison that disrupted the bowels so much , a man would beg for
death.
    Breanne felt his forehead. It still burned,
but not so hot as before. She nodded to no one and ran a hand
through her loosened hair. The braided strands pulled painfully
against the movement. Sighing, she began to unravel the thing and
twist her waist length hair into a knot instead. She realized that
Finn had gone silent. His silence was worse.
    The first waves of sorrow were accompanied by
fear. And soon guilt joined in. She should have come earlier. She
should have followed him sooner. She should have told someone. A
tear slid down her cheek and the first sob coughed through her.
Breanne covered her mouth almost as though to keep the pain inside
or lessen the outward force of it. But her hand only served to
muffle the sounds of crying.
    Heremon wasn’t an easy person to know. His
affection was difficult to win and praise came in meager supply.
But, she had grown to respect and even love the man. He was her
teacher and had believed in her. She knew that, not because he told
her but because he showed her. He had taken the time and withstood
risk and ridicule by taking her on as his primary student.
    “Bards come and go and believe themselves the
blessing of life itself. But an Ovate is rare to discover, a hard
win, and worth a thousand of them,” Heremon had said to her more
than once.
    Breanne smiled weakly as tears and her
eyebrows gathered tighter. With her knees to her chest, she tipped
back and forth, and didn’t notice the door had opened. They were no
longer alone.
    “Kill him.” Finn’s eyes glittered with
malice. He stopped at the man’s waist.
    “I canno’, Finn. He may know what happened to
Heremon. He may be here with Heremon for a reason.”
    Finn slowly shook his head.