Fianna's Awakening by Ron C Nieto

Author:Ron C Nieto [Nieto, Ron C]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ron C. Nieto
Published: 2018-11-11T22:00:00+00:00

Cold sweat ran down Ronan’s spine despite the toasty temperature. Fear chased itself round and round in his mind, along with a sense of inevitability and relief. Because he no longer needed to hide?

Because after so long pretending to be someone else, he had started to doubt who he truly was?

“Ronan?” she asked. The question sounded… normal. Not accusing. Not yet.

“I need a moment.” He pulled back, standing. The rain hadn’t abated outside, the constant downpour a dull drumming against the thatched roof, and each drop grated on him like the bar of a cage. He couldn’t go out, he couldn’t put distance between them, he couldn’t leave.

And… he didn’t want to, that daring, triumphant part of him realized. Step back to think how best to explain? Yes. Back away and disappear? No.

Not yet anyway. Not before I’ve recovered the Sleá Bua.

Aisling waited, watching him from the cot. He paced and leaned his weight on the mantle, the fire drawing dancing devils against his silhouette. He found it was easier to talk to those devils. Those devils didn’t have his life in the palm of their hands.

Maybe she doesn’t either. She doesn’t need the parts of the story that would make us… that would change the situation.

“I know about magic,” he told the fireplace. “I have studied it.”

There was a silence. Then, “As in… traditional rites and rural folklore?”

Ronan shook his head. He glanced at the leather cuff around his wrist, his good luck spent. That was good. If he was going to go through with this, he wanted the results to be what they would, unaffected by odds or gods.

He knelt by the fire and chose a chip. No longer than his pinkie finger, slightly irregular, only half-charred. He held it for a moment, then touched the blackened end with his fingertip to ensure it didn’t burn.

It didn’t, but it left a smudge of charcoal on his skin.

Perfect.

“Let me show you,” he said, sitting back on the cot with her.

Ronan wasn’t his mother. His talent had never been healing—not that his education had been long enough to discover and embrace any particular talent. Instead, he had been sent out as a jack-of-all-trades. Master of none but knowing just enough. Just enough to maybe show Aisling that he had reasons to believe her high tales, that he wished to continue working with her.

And maybe to tell her one secret, so she wouldn’t look too closely at another.

She didn’t say anything while he attempted to center himself. The routine of breathing exercises was an old companion, something he’d kept up with even as the rest of his practice—and combat training—had lost its edge. He quieted his mind and sank into it, letting his consciousness drown in a lake of his own making.

That part was still as hard as ever. Remaining calm and letting go of everything but the most tenuous link with the world sent fear pooling in his belly. Just like when he was twelve, a few short moons of

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