Run, Sorcha, run! Our sister turns and flees across the clearing like a little white owl, and some power unknown shelters her into the safety of the trees. But we, we six, are held immobile as the clammy shreds of mist move like some live creature up our bodies with inexorable purpose. Our legs are rooted to the ground, our arms pinioned, our tongues silenced. Only our minds still struggle, powerless, to free themselves.

She slips the hood back, and the morning light dances on her curling hair. She throws her head back in triumphant laughter.

“Oh, if you could see yourselves, little brothers! So comical, so droll!” Her voice darkens. “Did you think to outwit me with this paltry playacting, this pathetic attempt at sorcery? Shame on you! You would have better kept to your war toys, and left off dabbling in matters beyond your understanding. Well, you have your just desserts now, my boys; let us see how well you fare when I have dealt with you. For I am afraid you have underestimated me quite badly.”

She paces around the circle where we stand helpless. Before each in turn, she stops and speaks.

“Liam. Protector and leader, isn’t that the role your unfortunate mother intended for you? You have done a poor job of it today, firstborn. But never mind. Your father can get more sons as he got you. These lands will never be yours. Oh, Colum will mourn your loss, I doubt it not, but only for a while. I will comfort him. And he has already forgotten your warning.”

She moves onto Diarmid where he still leans on his brother’s shoulder, barely comprehending. “Well, my sweet lover, my tender one. Thought you could take your father’s place, did you? But you are nothing, nothing.” She emphasizes the insult by snapping her tapering fingers under his nose. Diarmid blinks. “Why would I dabble with an infant like you, when I can have a real man in my bed?”

She turns to Cormack. “Did you enjoy the twist of your knife in living flesh, pretty warrior? You might be interested to know what your sister gets up to, when you are away from home. For you do not all share the same enemy, I fear. You learned your father’s lesson well—smite first, ask questions later. Perhaps you should have tried that technique on me.”

I see Conor’s eyes, for he stands directly opposite me. They blaze with courage. He summons every scrap of will to resist her. But he is young yet, and it is not enough.

“You have failed, little druid. Failed them all. And there are no second chances for those that cross me. Did you really think her power was greater than mine? How little you know, yet think yourself so wise. We are one and the same.”

She whirls around, and now she faces me. I will not be afraid. It comes to me again, the cold, the strangeness, the great beating of wings. I see the face of death.