“You knew her, before.”
“We were young together. Not friends, never that. I was for the valley, and she lusted for the Capital. A seat of power as she saw it.”
When they crossed the bridge, Bollocks leaped out of the stream to run ahead toward the cottage. Breen didn’t need power to know he anticipated a treat in the kitchen.
“She went into the lake that day, as I did. No one could have wanted the sword so much as Yseult. To rule, you see, not to serve, or to protect, or to shoulder the weight of it all. Even then I could feel her envy, the dark of it, when I brought the sword from the lake.”
Marg took off her cloak when they stepped into the house, then granted the dog’s wish by going straight into the kitchen and his treat jar.
“Such a good, fine boy you are. Ask politely.”
Bollocks sat, let out a quiet bark.
“We’ll have some soup before your journey. And treat ourselves as well to some of Marco’s sweets.”
Knowing this routine, Breen sliced bread from the round while Marg warmed the soup.
“Just the two of us today, mo stór. Sedric had business elsewhere.”
“When did she turn, Nan? Yseult. You’ve never said.”
“She hid it well, from me, from her family, from all. And all the while, from that day, she practiced the darker arts in secret. She went to him, through the portal in the falls, passing in and out without detection. Would I, could I have seen if I had looked deeper? I can’t know that, but I know she used her gifts, what she had done to her gifts, to help him come through, to help him blind me to what he was. As I know she helped him rebuild when I thought him defeated. She helped him amass his army, helped him take you on that terrible night.
“This much I’ve seen in the fire, and in the crystal,” Marg added as they began to eat. “These things she did for power, and to strike at me for having what she coveted.”
“Does she love him?”
“Ah, no. Such as Yseult don’t love. She might lust, but love is a different thing. She worships him, I think. She made him her god. And power—through and of him? That is her true god, her lover, her beloved child. He is the answer for her, you see. She believes in him, of course. Is loyal because she believes.”
“They’ll destroy each other if it furthers their goals. He was ready to kill her in the vision I had, after she failed to take me to him. He didn’t because he cooled off enough to see she was still useful. And she was—like you said—wily in how she played it.”
“Remember these things. They’re weapons as well. And be wily yourself with the Trolls today. They love a good trade, and a fair one, but won’t hesitate to take advantage if you let them. Loga is the chief of the tribe here in the west, and a clever one. His wife, Sul, is more clever yet.”
“Give me your opinion.” Breen opened the box and set several samples on a plate. “Tell me if these give me an edge on the trade.”
Obliging, Marg chose a petit four Marco had frosted a strong green. “This is good. Very good indeed. I’ve never known a troll without a taste for the sweet. Meat and mead, aye, but the sweet disarms them. You’ll do well.”
With the door open, Breen heard the sound of horses trotting toward the cottage. “I guess I’m going to find out.”
Marg rose with her, walked her out where Keegan waited. “It’s a fine day for a ride.” She glanced up, watched Cróga circle overhead. “So you take your dragon as well.”
“She brought enough sweets for the whole of the Troll clan to have their fill. Cróga carries the trade.”
“If it’s too much for now, see they give her the proper credit for what she might want in the future. A fine day,” Marg repeated. “I believe I’ll spend some time in the air myself.”
“I’ll saddle your horse for you,” Breen began, but Marg waved her off.
“No, be off with you. Keegan will want you off the mountain before dark.” She kissed Breen’s cheek. “Enjoy, and the view from Sliabh Sióg.”
Breen bent down to Bollocks. “You can stay here at the cottage or go up to the farm. Go play with the children, or find Marco and Morena. But I’m going too far for you to come today.”
He whined when she straightened, took a moment to stroke Boy, the buckskin gelding she’d ride.
“I’ll be back with the moons,” she promised. “And I’ll call out to you.”
She mounted, found relief she felt confident in the saddle. “I’ll send for him when we’re back, and we’ll come tomorrow, Nan.”