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To the power of family, those born, those made

When shall we three ain?

In thunder, lightning, or in rain?

When the hurlyburly’s done,

When the battle’s lost and won

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Macbeth

1

Winter 1263

NEAR THE SHADOW OF THE CASTLE, DEEP IN THE GREEN woods, Sorcha led her children through the glooest rode the sturdy pony, with Teagan, barely three, nodding with every plod Weary, Sorcha thought, after the excite

“Mind your sister, Eamon”

At five, Ea was a quick poke to wake up his baby sister before he went back to nibbling on the bannocks his

“Hoan whined “Home soon”

She’d tarried too long in the clearing, she thought now And though Is in the woht fell too fast and hard in winter

A bitter one it had been, crackling with icy winds and blowing snow and ice-tipped rain The fog had lived all winter, creeping, crawling, curtaining sun and , she’d heard her na she refused to answer Too often in that world of white and gray, she’d seen the dark

She refused to truck with it