He sees them in the clouds. His daughter, creature of fire and magic, difficult, angry, clever; his mother the sorceress, despised nemesis from whom he learned so much. How she would laugh if she could see him now. What would this be to her, triumph or bitter blow? Her son, a prince of the Otherworld. Her son, a druid dedicated to the path of light. Well, she is gone, and the question remains unanswered.
Niamh. The thought of her is an ache in the heart, an emptiness never to be filled. His lovely Niamh, who danced by firelight and stole his heart forever and a day. Niamh, who gave him his child. Niamh, whom his mother killed. They are woven together, the three of them, the bright and the dark. He wears them like a garment of flowering thorn.
Others have opened cracks in his long-closed heart: that remarkable child Finbar, with his wide-open eyes and soaring courage; the sisters, Clodagh, Sibeal, Maeve, each of them more extraordinary than she can ever know. Cathal, whom he has spared to live and love, to have for a lifetime what he was granted for a scant three years. It was the right choice. It was the only choice. This duty is his and his alone.
The clouds drift before the wind and the faces are gone. The druid lowers his arms; crosses his hands at his breast. He closes his eyes. Around him the circle stills. He breathes in a slow pattern. There will be challenges; there will be dissent. There will be sharp knives and sharper words. Let them come. The flame burns in his spirit and he is not afraid.
Juliet Marillier, Flame of Sevenwaters
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