They were as easy to kill as lambs.
The villagers had reacted to me not as their savior, but rather as a monster to be feared. They ran screaming from me just as they had run from the Northmen. As I stood amid the destruction, the rage that had brought it about disappeared as quickly as it had come. But it was when I saw the fear in my own clansmen’s eyes that I leaped astride Sleipnir and ran.
Tears had blinded me, and Sleipnir galloped without direction. Before long, I was hopelessly lost in my own kingdom. When night fell, we took shelter in a cave, and as I stayed close to my horse for warmth, I told myself my father would come for me.
When dawn broke over the cave, it was Fergus who found me.
“Did my father send you?” I had asked.
He shook his head, the pity filling his eyes. “No, milady.”
It was then I had realized that not only would I have to wrest control of the power within me, I could no longer rely on anyone but myself.
In the distance, white sheep bleated, drawing my attention away from my melancholy thoughts. Smoke from a small, stone farmhouse drifted toward the sky. The wind carried the smell of it to me: wood burning and freshly baked bread. A path cut through the earth toward the little farmhouse, worn down by wagons and horses, but Leif kept Sleipnir firmly pointed south.
“How do you know the way to Dubhlinn?” I asked. I was surprised he was guiding us so easily without well-worn paths or the coast for reference.
“My father has maps of this land, and he had me study them long before I ever sailed on my first longship.”
My jaw tensed. “So you could find the prime areas for raids?”
“Yes,” he said without contrition, “but also because it’s dangerous to sail to a completely unknown land.”
I couldn’t fault the wisdom in that, and it rankled. “Is your father still alive?”
“He is.”
I thought of the many battles I’d fought with my own father. Strange that Leif’s father wasn’t with him. “Does he sail his own longship, then? Laying siege to other innocent monasteries?”
“Not anymore,” he said. The amusement in his voice made my teeth clench. “I sail his longships for him now.” He was quiet for a moment before adding, “One day when he is tired of this world, he’ll join us on raids until he falls in battle.”
I could hear the despondency in his voice, but also pride. “Valhalla again?”
He let out a breath in a quiet laugh. “Yes, Valhalla.”
I knew enough of the Northmen to know that it was impressive that Leif led the raids at only eighteen. We fell silent again, as Sleipnir continued steadily on.
But when next we stopped for water, Leif stopped me before I could climb astride. “I asked you once before, and I think now would be as good a time as any. Will you spar with me?”
I shrugged, even as I itched for the chance to prove myself capable with a blade. “How will we practice with only one sword?”
He pulled out his dagger. “I’ll attack with this, and you’ll deflect with your sword.”
I glanced at his distinctly smaller weapon with no small amount of skepticism, but in the end, I found I didn’t care if he sustained a few nicks. I took hold of my broadsword with both hands and readied myself.
He attacked, so fast his body was a blur. It was nothing like fighting him the first time, and I realized with a cold trickle of horror down my spine that my instincts had been correct that day: he had been holding back. Instinctively, I raised my sword to protect my face, using the sharp side to deflect his blows.
“No,” Leif said, halting abruptly. “Never use the edge of your sword to displace an attack. It will dull and weaken the metal.” He stepped forward and took hold of my hands. “Use the flat of the blade.” He gently rotated my wrists until the flat of the sword pointed outward.
I nodded slowly, already surprised to learn I’d been deflecting incorrectly for years. “Again.”
It was unfathomable—he was attacking me with a dagger, and yet all I could do was try to block him. I danced and wove, trying to ward off the blows. Very soon, my arms and legs began to fatigue.
Leif relented. “You are tired?”
I panted in answer, and he smiled. He was enjoying this.
“That’s because you’re using ridiculous wide, sweeping motions.” He gestured for me to hand over the sword, and I did so with narrowed eyes. Ridiculous indeed. He demonstrated what he meant, swinging the sword in a wide arc in front of us. The taut muscles in his arms bulged. “Instead, make your motions small, deliberate.” He made a small twist of his wrist, as though deflecting an attack. “You want to set aside your opponent’s blow so his thrust is broken but yours connects.”
“Or I could take control of him mentally and have him fall upon my sword,” I said with a mean smile.
“You could. But how many can you control at once?”
I shifted uncomfortably. “One.”
“Then you’re still vulnerable. I’ll try to shield you in battle as best I can, but—”
“Make no mistake, Northman,” I interrupted, my hands clenched in fists at my sides, “I need no protection from you.”
He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise, but wisely kept silent. I took the broadsword back from him, and we continued our practice until my arms refused to wield the heavy weapon. By the end, though, I was able to successfully apply all the techniques he taught me—not perfectly but with some proficiency. I’d always been a quick study in swordplay.
As we remounted, I swore myself to silence—in all our conversations, when had I forgotten that we might be temporary allies, but he was still an enemy?—but it was as though my mouth couldn’t obey. “The skill you have for battle,” I said, my eyes focused on Sleipnir’s mane, “it goes beyond a natural affinity for it, doesn’t it?”
I risked a glance at him and saw amusement touch the edges of his mouth. “Yes.”
“And you won’t tell me how you came to be such a superior fighter?”
“I’ll tell you when you tell me how you can use your mind to control others.”
“I can’t tell you because I don’t know.” He was quiet, and it was his silence that prompted me to offer more. “My clansmen always whispered that I was a changeling, but no one ever elaborated because my father forbade them from talking about it.”
I could feel his eyes on me. “Yours isn’t a gift of the Fae. They would never give up a child with your abilities to mere mortals.”
A strange sense of relief combined with a yawning chasm of despair overcame me. A changeling would mean that the true princess, the babe with fair hair and light eyes like the rest of my family, lived a life of uncertain future surrounded by the Fae. For so long, it had tortured me to think I had taken the place of the human child. Yet I still didn’t know where my power came from.
“Then I have no explanation for my power. It’s something I’ve lived with for many years, but I’ve never known its source.”
“A gift of the gods, then,” he said.
“There is only one God.” I said it automatically, the words as familiar to me as my own name.
“Your Christian God would never gift you with the power to kill so many men.”
“He has seen it fit to grace others before me; Father Briain has told us many tales of such men.”
He fixed me with a penetrating look. “And the kráka?”
I averted my eyes. The Morrigan had once been worshipped as a god, and may have been still. It wasn’t unusual for my people to cling to superstitions that clearly contradicted the dogma of our Christian faith, but I still couldn’t say exactly how the Morrigan fit into the belief system I’d always known.
“How you came by your power matters little,” Leif continued. “What matters is how you use it.”
I inwardly shook my head. “Why do you sound as sage as an old crone? You’re barely older than I am.” But I knew he made an excellent point. My abilities allowed me to protect the sisters I had left, which was all I truly cared about.
Again, the wind pulled and snatched at my hair, and I shoved it behind me in irritation.