Нора Робертс - The Becoming

“Then I’ll get started, and get Brian settled in. How about we take Bollocks?”

“Yeah, okay.” Breen bent down, gave him a rub. “You go home with Marco and Brian. I’ll be there soon. He’s going to want a swim.”

“No problem. See you on the other side!”

“Where am I going?” Breen asked as the men went to get their bags and walk across the road with the dog leading the way. “Why am I going?”

“I told you I needed to take you if there was time today, and there is.”

“Brian rode Boy back, and it’s a really long trip.”

“We’re not going by horse,” he began, then took a good look at her. “Are you drunk then, Breen?”

“Maybe a little. Slightly.”

“Well, the flight should clear your head.”

“We’re going by dragon?” She perked right up. “This has been an excellent day! Now I get a dragon ride and chicken and dumplings.” She cocked her head. “And maybe, if I’m in the mood, I’ll let you have sex with me.”

He took her hand as he called Cróga. “What were you drinking, so I can see about getting more of it?”

“Sidhe champagne.”

“That might have to wait a day or two.” He gave her a boost onto Cróga, swung on behind her.

“You didn’t say where we’re going.”

“You’ll see for yourself, as you must and should.”

Too relaxed to object, she looked down as they rose up. “It’s so beautiful. The valley, yes, but the farm. Whenever I see it, I know why my father loved it. I know why you do. It says everything about the peace you work so hard to hold. Where did you live before? I don’t think I ever asked.”

“The cottage where Aisling and Mahon and the boys make their home.”

“Of course. That’s why it has the same feel.”

As they flew west, she picked out other spots she knew. Nan’s cottage, of course, and the one where Mina and her family lived, where clothes snapped on the line and smoke puffed from the chimney. And to the south, the ruins, the dance, her father’s grave.

Then they soared up, higher, over towering trees, and on a gasp, she reached back to grip Keegan’s hand.

The cliffs, sheer as glass, rose over a tumbling sea. The water beat at their base, spewed up over rock and shale and sand to fold back into itself. Then rushed in to pound again.

On the clifftops, she saw trees bent and twisted from the wind, and high grasses swept down at each blow.

“It’s breathtaking. It was from the mountain, but even more now.”

“The Far West.”

“Marco and I saw the Cliffs of Moher in Ireland. It’s like that, only wilder. There are boats coming in.”

“The sea’s there to be fished.”

Her breath caught again as they flew over the sea, and below a whale white as chalk sounded.

Dolphins leaped, and Mers with them.

On the clifftops she saw another stone circle, larger than the other, a few stone buildings, a handful of cottages.

“We have what you’d call a base here, a training ground. Eyes of the Far West they are. My father and yours trained there.”

“Did they? Did you?”

“My father and yours trained us in the valley. The stones there are Fin’s Dance, the largest and they say oldest in all of Talamh. At sunrise on the summer solstice, the rising sun strikes the king stone— the tallest—and the light spreads from it, white and bright, stone by stone. And they sing. You hear them sing to every dance in the world, and every dance in the world answers.”

He circled once more. “And so their song and the light of the longest day touches every corner of Talamh.”

“It must be magnificent.”

“It is. And the winter solstice gives the moons; their light is softer and restful for the longest night. But still it spreads, and the stones sing.”

She leaned against him as he flew back. “I loved seeing that. Thanks.”

“Ah, that was to clear your head. We’ve a journey yet to take.”

She assumed a short one, as the sun eased toward those peaks in the west. But long or short, she didn’t mind. Cróga cleaved through clouds like a boat through the sea, and the wind on her face tasted fresh, crisp. The world below rolled green and gold with rivers and road winding through. They soared over the Troll mines, the dales below them, the forest where the shadows deepened.

And, she saw now, they flew toward that towering peak.

“To see the dragons?” Beyond thrilled, she shoved her hair as it blew in her face when she turned to him. “Oh, what a day! Are there many? Can you feel them? I can feel them. There’s such power, such pull.”

Even as she spoke, Cróga let out a roar. In response, dragons, every color in the world, rose into the air and answered.

A flood, a flood of bold gems against the sky, and the power, the sheer power of them beat like a thousand drums.

“Oh God! I can hardly breathe. It’s so amazing. It’s so beautiful.” She jumped, then laughed at herself when a dragon, amethyst with eyes of emerald, swung beside them. Cróga turned his head, rubbed it to hers.

“His mate,” Keegan said. “They live long, but take only one.”

“She’s beautiful. Does she have a name?”

“Banrion. It means queen, as she’s regal. Her rider is Magda, who lives in the Far West.”

“There are so many,” she said. “They all have riders?”

“No. Some will have lost their rider, as we don’t live as long. And like a mate, they take only one, as a rider takes only one. Others will not have chosen or been chosen, found or have been found. And won’t until their rider becomes, and makes the choice. Until, they wait.”

She saw caves in the mountain, some huge, and ledges, steps, a wide plateau. Clouds swirled around them like smoke as Cróga glided down.

“Babies! Or young ones. Smaller.”

“A year, a full turn, the mother carries the egg. One to three eggs, though three is rare. And then when laid, she nests a quarter turn— only rising when her mate or another takes her place for a brief time.”

The young, big as horses, scrambled, squawked, as Cróga landed on the plateau. And, like children, Breen thought, raced back again to flutter around them. One, shining silver, flew up to stare at her from bright blue eyes, then zipped away.

“They’re gorgeous. Am I allowed to touch?”

“They wouldn’t come to you otherwise.”

And because they did, when she slid down, she held out her hands, touched as they darted toward her, did turns and circles and dips.

“They’re showing off,” she realized. “Playing. Are any Cróga’s?”

Keegan gestured, and she watched a youth, emerald and blue, sliding up Cróga’s tail. “His youngest. Watch.”

Cróga flicked his tail, sent the youth flying. The sound he made could only be called giddy joy. Cróga soared up after to fly with his mate.

“They have three. Two sons, a daughter. One from each nesting. She carries two now, and please the gods will lay them safe next summer.”

“Of all the wonders I’ve seen here, this is the most—I don’t know— compelling. I’ve always had a thing for dragons. I guess it came from the childhood I couldn’t remember. And seeing them like this, free and flying. Full grown, children.”

Again she held out her hands. One, the size of a large cat, landed on her arm.

“Heavy!” Laughing, she cradled it.

“No more than a few days old, that one. Fresh from the nesting cave.” Keegan gestured to the large opening. “There we don’t go unless invited.”

“Understood.” She stroked the amber scales. “I had a dream, right before we left for Ireland last summer. I was walking by the river, this side of the waterfall, and I saw what I thought were little birds, so colorful and quick and bright. They were baby dragons, like butterflies, circling and darting. One landed in the palm of my hand. But they don’t come that small.”