To break his family's curse, Faolan mac Domnall seeks to marry the beautiful Saoirse, princess of Mide. Spirited and outspoken, the wild Saoirse wants nothing more than to escape the life that's been decided for her. Determined to outmaneuver a twis...
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With all the certainty of a young man who thinks himself full-grown, Faolan mac Domnall knew that his family was cursed. It explained why their milk soured well before their neighbors'. It explained why their roof always leaked. It explained why his mother died, still young and fair. It explained why his father had taken to drink and lost his title and his standing. And it explained why he was sitting in chilly mud on this wet morning. Cursed.
The rude beast of a horse in the stall next to him shrieked a whinny that Faolan was sure was mocking laughter.
"You won't be laughing like that if I don't fix this door, Banner," he promised lowly, wiping away the stinking mud that had splattered to his eyes.
Although the stable was less than two years old, its door had rotted through earlier than anyone could have predicted. Cursed.
"You think it's a fair joke, seeing me covered in dirt, drenched like a cat left in a storm." Faolan dug his frozen fingers into the puddle, searching for the nail he had dropped in his fall. "But a wet autumn is sure to bring an icy winter."
Banner snorted, lowering his head to lip at Faolan's hair.
"Ah! You don't believe me now, stubborn mule. But you'll be frozen twice over come solstice time if this door won't keep the wind out."
As if it heard him, the wind howled in fury, blowing the door back a second time. But Faolan, the element of surprise lost, refused to be bested. With all the strength he had, he braced it shut and hammered the last nails into the new latch. Despite the piercing cry of the wind over the meager stretch of the barley crop, the new wood held fast. Though his brother Bradan would have done the job surer, and Aidan would have solved it cleverer, Faolan was certain only a curse could break his handiwork before spring.
"See there, Banner," he bragged, wiping his muddy hands on his tunic. "That ought to do."
The dappled horse huffed a cloud of hot air and returned to nibbling at the fresh straw that lined his stall. The breath of fresh earth and the spicy, warm scent of horses was coming home for Faolan. As the weak beams of autumn's morning cast themselves through the slats, he wondered if he had been too hasty with considering curses.
"Faolan!"
The deep bellow of his father echoed in the stable, in his chest, in his very bones. Donnchad mac Domnall had once been the mighty leader of Fir Tulach. Now he was a sorry, stinking drunk who cared more about ale than he ever had about their tribe. Though Faolan credited him: the man still shouted like a chief. The ale, at least, had not robbed him of that.
"Comin'," he yelled back, giving Banner a playful scratch before jogging up the hill to their cottage.
Once, in a time before, their cottage had been his mother's pride. Despite its years of poor luck with mice and mold, she filled it to the corners with warmth. Diedre Uí Carraigh was the fire in the hearth and her absence left the mac Domnall men with nothing more than cold ashes.
