A cold sweat broke out over my skin, and I shook as though I were feverish. I begged for the images to end, to be released from the vision, but they continued mercilessly.
Another vision of éirinn, this time of green hills, the sky above steel gray. Northmen ran across the hills, armed for battle. The men seemed different, somehow; their features were twisted, and some had deformities that made them appear less than human. They called to one another in a strange tongue, like Norse, only more guttural. More and more appeared until there was an entire army. They moved as one, swarming over the meadows, killing even sheep in their path.
As they ran, they grew taller and wider, until they were as big as mountains. The earth shook with their steady footsteps, and soon, all of éirinn was covered by the massive men. With their axes and their legs as wide as oak trees, they destroyed everything, burning what they did not reduce to rubble. The scene changed, the land becoming more familiar: the coast where Branna and Deirdre gathered seashells, the meadow where they rode their ponies, my father’s castle upon the cliff. My clansmen lay torn apart, blood spilling upon the ground, turning the earth red. High-pitched screams came from the keep: my sisters begging for mercy. I tried to shake my head, to close my eyes against the terrible vision, but the Morrigan was relentless.
Then I saw my sisters in my room, huddled together on my bed as though they had come looking for me to save them. Over them loomed a creature whose head brushed the stone ceiling, whose muscled body was nearly as wide as my bed. He was a man and yet not . . . too tall, too craggy and mountainous to be considered human. He reached for Deirdre first, and I fought anew against the vision—I wanted to take control of his mind and destroy him before he could even touch her—yet I could do nothing but watch as he yanked her up as though she were only a doll. She was screaming and fighting; Branna leaped off the bed in an attempt to stop him, and to my horror, he grabbed her, too. Lifting both of his massive arms, he dangled my sisters from his hands and squeezed. Their faces turned red, then purple; they clawed at his hands.
And then they were dead, hanging limp from his fists. He threw them to the floor and stomped over their bodies. I shook, tears streaking down my cheeks—it was so real, so vivid. I suddenly understood how the old woman with the sluagh had thrown herself into the sea. At that moment, I would have done anything to make the vision stop.
Screams continued from the keep as the vision shifted from my sisters’ lifeless bodies to more scenes of death, to the destruction of everything I’d ever known. And everywhere, fire . . . fire burning through the meadow and roaring into the bailey. Soon, the whole of the Emerald Isle was nothing but ash.
Why torture me with such visions? I demanded, no longer able to watch the destruction of my clansmen, my family, my world.
The gods of the old world have stood aside, obeyed the ancient laws giving free will to men, the Morrigan said, her voice echoing in my mind, and now, when our realm and yours hang in the balance, we are still bound by our covenants. The laws are clear: we can act only through man. And in all the world, there are only two strong enough to defeat them. One born for it, the other through great sacrifice.
The vision shifted yet again in my mind, to show a pool of mist that concealed the figures of two people. They stepped into the light, and to my horror, I saw who the Morrigan spoke of: myself . . . and the Northman I currently held prisoner.
What has he to do with it? I thought, even as I remembered the voice telling me, You need him.
It was I who brought the two of you together, for only your alliance can save us all.
No, I thought. No, I cannot join forces with my enemy.
You must. The monsters will not be satisfied with the destruction of éirinn. They will slaughter everyone you love, and they will not rest until the world is destroyed. A war is coming. Will you fight it, Ciara of Mide?
In a rush, the crow, the Morrigan, and everything I had seen, evaporated like water in the sun. Released from the paralysis, I stumbled out of the tub and fell to the floor, wet and shaking. I curled in on myself and took great gulping breaths.
“That cannot be true,” I whispered. “Please, let it not be true.”
It’s no lie, the voice answered. Make ready.
5
Dawn’s weak light barely illuminated the goat trail up to the cave, and the rocks were slick from the recent high tide. I picked my way carefully, my mind on the revelations of the night before. The residual terror of what I’d seen still held me in its grasp, and I couldn’t free myself from watching my sisters’ brutal deaths. Once the visions had passed the night before and I could finally walk again—shivering and sick—I had gone to where Branna and Deirdre slept peacefully and held them so tightly they’d both made sounds of protest. Instead of sleeping, I’d stood guard over them all night, terrified that the moment I closed my eyes would be the moment the vision would come true.
Now as I walked toward my prisoner, my head felt heavy and throbbed mercilessly as though I’d caught a chill, and my limbs trembled. I’d been in many people’s heads, seen their darkest thoughts, been in battles that were gruesome and violent, but nothing was as soul-crushingly terrible as the Morrigan’s vision. Not only had I been forced to relive what happened to my sister Alana—something I hadn’t allowed myself to fully remember for years now—but also I was forced to witness the threat to my surviving sisters in such vivid detail that my stomach churned with horror just thinking about it. Worse still was the threat that such a fate could befall not only my family and kingdom, but all of éirinn.
The Morrigan. It had been her voice, her crows that had warned me of impending death. I’d always wondered, though of course any belief in her would only brand me a heretic. She was part of the Tuatha Dé Danann. Though the people of éirinn were now Christian, it didn’t erase the magic from our land, nor the creatures who had always made it their home. The Tuatha Dé Danann were powerful immortals, and the Morrigan was perhaps the most frightening. Some called her the Phantom Queen because she was a specter on the battlefield, often flying above it as a crow, warning of bloody and gruesome death. She was even known for determining the outcome of battle, choosing who would be the victor.
In this, at least, she had always seemed to favor me.
Again, I thought of her words on the battlefield. Not him, she had said, and I’d been compelled to spare his life. Did she really mean for me to join forces with my Northman prisoner? I shook my head. What if he had raided the monastery and killed my father? Was I to join forces with my father’s murderer? I would gladly fight the monsters from the Morrigan’s vision myself, but I could not join forces with my enemy. It was far too much to ask of me.
One born for it, the other through great sacrifice.
The words filled me with unease. I didn’t understand what she meant, but neither did I want to. I’d spent many years wondering where my powers came from and why I was the only one in my family with such abilities, but did this mean I was the one who was born to it? Or was I the one who’d make a great sacrifice? Thinking such things only elicited more questions. There must be another goal in mind.
And somehow, the Northman fit into those goals.
The prisoner watched me with his ice-blue eyes as I crossed the threshold of the cave. He had stood tall in the Morrigan’s vision, his hair braided and face not smattered with blood and dirt, not battered and beaten as he was now.
I held aloft the hunk of bread and flagon of wine I’d brought him. “I will loosen your irons and allow you to eat and drink, if you will swear to answer my questions.”
He said nothing, only shifted with a soft rattle of chains.
“You must be uncomfortable after a night spent in such a position,” I said.