by Catherine Thompson

Sorcha lay weeping on her bed. Her body trembled with violent sobs, and she clutched at the bedclothes, crushing the rich fabric in her fingers.

"Sorcha?" She lifted her head to peer at her mother. Niamh, life-bonded of the Chieftain, entered the room without waiting for her daughter's consent. She seated herself on the edge of the bed. "What is it, child?"

"Warren," Sorcha choked.

Niamh sighed. "What's he done now?"

"He's gone, Mother, he's left the Clan Lands!" Sorcha wailed. She turned on her mother. "Don't say it! Don't tell me I'm better off without him. I love him, and I'll always love him," she said in a fierce voice. She dropped her head into her arms.

Niamh kept quiet a moment, then put a hand on her daughter's back. "Sorcha," she began in reasonable tones, "you're fifteen. You'll meet someone, form a life-bond--"

"I've already formed a life-bond!" Sorcha cried. "With Warren."

"Sorcha--"

"Get out. Get out of my chamber, Mother!"

Niamh withdrew. Sorcha flicked her hand, and the door slammed shut.

When she had cried herself dry, Sorcha dragged herself to the window-seat and curled up on the cushions, tucking her feet beneath the hem of her green dress. From here, she could see the tree beneath which she had so often tended Warren after his father beat him. In its shade, just that morning, Warren had told her, "I don't want to be a Cuccurullo anymore. Not if it means I end up like the rest of the Clan."

"What do you mean?"

"I've seen the light," Warren had declared. "The Clan is evil, Flame."

Her hated nickname always sounded like music when he said it. Sorcha smiled faintly, running her fingers through the fiery red hair that, along with her hot temper, had earned her the epithet. She still didn't understand how Warren could consider any Clan evil, let alone his own. He'd told her of a people beyond the borders of the Clan Lands, who used no magic and lived in peace with each other. "They're good people," Warren had said. "They can teach me their Way."

Sorcha had pleaded with him, to no avail. When she had realized she couldn't persuade him from his path, she had cursed him. "You'll find no peace, Warren of Clan Cuccurullo. You'll wander far lands, searching for it but never finding it, because you can never be anything but a Cuccurullo!"

Tears filled her eyes again. Sorcha hadn't wanted to curse Warren, had instead wanted to beg him to take her along, but pride had twisted her tongue.

Someone tapped at her door. "Go away, Mother," Sorcha said, her voice flat and listless.

"It's not your mother, Sorcha."

"Go away, Father."

The door swung open, and Aodh, Chieftain of Clan Cuccurullo, entered. "Your mother tells me Warren has left." He leant his bulk casually against the jamb, but Sorcha could see his green eyes examining her. She turned towards the window again without answering.

"A message has come from Lorcan," said Aodh, breaking the silence. Sorcha looked at him, frowning. "He's been watching your progress."

Sorcha straightened. "Lorcan? He's the most powerful Mage in all the Seven Clans. Why would he watch me?"

Aodh chuckled. "Sorcha, you use Power more naturally than any of us. Why wouldn't he?" He crossed the room to his daughter's side. "He sees something special in you, and he wants to train you himself. Will you go?"

Sorcha could hardly believe her ears. The idea of being trained by the great Lorcan pushed thoughts of Warren from her mind. Her answer must have been clear in her expression, for Aodh smiled. "Then we ride for the mountains tomorrow."

~*~

The journey to the Rathangan Mountains, which marked the eastern boundary of the Clan Lands, took nearly three days. Aodh and his four warrior sons accompanied Sorcha to the foothills. "From here, you must go alone," her father told her. "Follow that path--it'll take you right to Lorcan's door." He smiled at her. "Go well, daughter." He reined his grey stallion around and headed for home.

Sorcha stared at the narrow, rock-strewn path that had been cut into the mountainside, then urged her bay mare forward.

They climbed for hours, pausing often so the horse could rest. The setting sun was painting the mountains red-gold by the time the path widened in front of a dwelling carved out of the rock. The oaken door bore symbols of Power.

Sorcha halted the mare. "Lorcan?" she called. "It is I, Sorcha, by Aodh out of Niamh." No-one answered. "Is anybody there?"

She was on the verge of turning her horse around when the door opened. "Who calls?" asked a deep voice from the shadows.

"Are you Lorcan?" Sorcha asked.

"What if I am?"

"Did you not send for me?"

"If you are Sorcha of Clan Cuccurullo, also called Flame."

Sorcha bridled, but answered, "I am."

"Then I am Lorcan." The Mage stepped from the shadows. He stood nearly as high as his door. Black hair, braided in the Clan manner, hung past his shoulders. Deep blue eyes assessed her. Lorcan wore the patterned woollen trousers and rough-woven shirt of a Clansman, but he had a rich cloak the colour of wine wrapped around him and fastened at his shoulder with an ornate brooch. He extended a hand to her. "Come down, Sorcha of Clan Cuccurullo."

Sorcha slid from the saddle. Lorcan knotted the reins and slapped the horse's rump. The mare bolted for the path. "You'll have no more need of her," the Mage told Sorcha, stifling the girl's protests. "Come. We have much to discuss."

Sorcha sat at Lorcan's table and partook of his plain fare. "Why did you send for me? Why do you wish to train me?" she asked as they ate.

"Because I have made tarbhfeis, the Bull Dream," Lorcan said. "When I had drunk the bull's blood and entered the realm of visions, I saw you, your destiny. I knew it would fall to me to teach you. Your Power is great, but your skill is small."

"I have been using Power since I was a child," Sorcha declared. Lorcan chuckled. "You are still a child," he said.

"What, then, is my destiny?" Sorcha asked.

Lorcan shook his head. "Much remains hidden," he told her. "All that has been revealed to me is that you will be the greatest wielder of Power in the Clans."

Sorcha straightened in her seat. The greatest wielder of Power in the Clans. The thought made her smile.

Lorcan tested the girl the next day. She thought she did well, but Lorcan shook his head. "Messy," he said. "Sloppy. No accuracy whatever."

"But--" Sorcha began. Lorcan waved a hand at her. "Not only that," he said, walking to the tree she had first conjured, then destroyed, "you use too much energy. Wasteful."

"But--"

"Just because you can draw on the Power in your surroundings doesn't mean you should," Lorcan continued. He returned to her and laid a hand on her head. "All the Power you shall ever need is within you."

"I don't understand," Sorcha said.

Lorcan walked away from her. "You will."

As the days became weeks that stretched into months, Lorcan taught her the necessary control so she could expand her capabilities. She learnt how a single Word of Power in the ancient language of the Clans could create or destroy. The Mage showed her the uses of Power symbols.

"These on my door are protections," Lorcan explained. "This," he pointed to the top one, "is the Knot, which binds all Power. The next is the Wheel, which is life. The last is the Shield, which is obvious." He smiled at her; Sorcha smiled in return. "There are many more," Lorcan continued, and he drew them in the dirt with his staff, explaining them to his student.

Sorcha studied hard. She realized at some point her destiny would be earned, rather than given to her. Lorcan nodded when she spoke of it to him. "There is always a choice," he told her. "Always two paths. That is why the Gods can reveal only so much to us in visions. You could have chosen to stay in your Clan's stronghold; you chose instead to come to me."

Sorcha blinked in surprise. "I'd never thought of it like that." she murmured. Lorcan smiled. "Now you begin to grow wise, Sorcha of Clan Cuccurullo."

Under Lorcan's tutelage, Sorcha grew not only wiser, but more skilled and more powerful. She learnt the uses of herbs and their power to cure or kill. Lorcan taught her strategy as well. "It's not enough to wield Power," he said. "You must know when as well as how." He improved her fighting skills, reminding her as they thrust and parried with sword and dagger that often a well-placed blade was more useful than a host of spells.

He taught her to make visions, first by burning herbs, then by drinking potions. "I want to make tarbhfeis," Sorcha said at last.

"That is the most powerful way to visions," Lorcan demurred. "It requires much preparation."

Sorcha squared her shoulders. "I am ready," she insisted. Lorcan ran appraising eyes over her. After a long, contemplative silence, he nodded. "All right, then."

He had her fast for three nights. On the third morning, he showed her how to bleed the white bull he kept for the purpose, guiding her knife to the proper spot in the animal's neck and capturing the blood in a silver bowl.

Inside, Sorcha knelt on a bear-hide before the hearth. Lorcan knelt beside her, holding the bowl. He lifted it to her lips. "Drink." Sorcha grasped the bowl in her own hands. The blood was still warm. She drank quickly, trying not to taste it. "Now, relax and let the vision come," Lorcan instructed. "Focus on the fire, clear your mind of thought."

Sorcha stared into the flames, watching the patterns they made against the stones. Her lids grew heavy.

She saw a field of battle. Soldiers rammed their horses into each other, letting the beasts kick and bite while they slashed at their opponents with broadswords and great axes. Steel sang against steel. Cries of anger and pain filled her ears. She had known battles; the Clans fought as a matter of course, but she had never seen this one's like. Bowmen lined opposite hills, firing longbows and crossbows at the fighters below and at their fellows across the shallow valley. The dead and dying, man and horse, lay everywhere. Blood ran in rivers across the grass. She walked through her vision, untouched.

A familiar voice made her turn. She saw the mounted figure and knew him at once, though he had changed his appearance since she had last set eyes upon him. She called out to him.

"Warren!"

He didn't respond, only continued to exhort the troops to victory. She ran towards him.

"Warren!"

His horse wheeled, and he led the next charge. She watched as the beast was cut out from beneath him, saw him fall, then rise again, sword in hand.

"Warren!"

She thought she saw him turn towards her, but her own cries pulled her out of her trance.

Sorcha sprawled on the bear-hide, calling Warren's name and weeping, the pain of their parting as fresh now as on that day. Lorcan stroked her hair to soothe her. "What did you see, Sorcha, my bright flame?"

In gasps and sobs, she told him. Lorcan remained silent for some moments. "This Warren," he began. "What is he to you?"

"He is of my Clan," Sorcha whispered.

"There is more."

Sorcha hesitated, then nodded. "I . . . loved him," she murmured.

"That is why the vision comes so strong upon you." Lorcan continued to stroke her hair. "You will learn to control it. You are strong, my bright one." He placed a light kiss upon her brow. Sorcha looked into his deep blue eyes, and all at once her lips were pressed to his. Lorcan wrapped his arms about her, lifting her from the floor, and took her to his bed.

When it was over, Sorcha lay awake, watching Lorcan sleep beside her. She smiled. She had wanted Warren to be her first, but she was content that it had been Lorcan. She gave a delicious shiver as her body remembered those pleasures to which the Mage had introduced her, then laid her head against his breast and closed her eyes.

Seasons turned again and still again, until Sorcha had passed five years with her teacher. This night, she sat again before the fire, watching the flames dance while their supper cooked. Lorcan had gone to tend the few animals he kept: goats, some hens, the white bull, a brown gelding. No vision-herbs smoked in the fire, yet Sorcha saw something that made her cry out in an agony of terror.

Lorcan must have heard her, for he rushed into the dwelling, leaving the door to swing on its hinges. Sorcha didn't look up as he knelt beside her and took her in his arms. "What is it, bright one?" he murmured urgently into her hair, rocking her. "What do you see?"

"My people," Sorcha gasped. "My Clan--they're under siege--they need me!" She struggled to rise; Lorcan held her tighter. "It's a Sending!" she cried. "They're calling for me--Lorcan, let me go!"

"I cannot," Lorcan said. "If you go now, I cannot complete your training."

"If you won't let me go, then come with me," Sorcha begged.

Lorcan shook his head. "The Sending was for you, not me," he said. "I cannot answer it."

"Then I must!" Sorcha wrenched herself free of Lorcan's arms and stood. "I'll need your horse." Lorcan sighed, then he, too, rose to his feet.

He saddled the gelding while Sorcha changed into trousers. "Turn him loose when you reach your village. He'll find his way home," the Mage told her. Sorcha nodded and swung into the saddle. Lorcan held the reins. He looked into her face. "Is this your choice?"

Sorcha swallowed hard. "It is."

"Then farewell, Sorcha of Clan Cuccurullo." Lorcan walked into his dwelling and shut the door.

Sorcha rode for her village without stopping, sleeping in the saddle. Night had fallen twice before she reached it. Fires burned everywhere, lighting her way. Smoke choked the air. Sorcha smelt a sickly-sweet odour and recognized it as burning flesh. Dismounting, she turned the horse loose and continued on foot. She saw bodies littering the ground: on the roadway, in front of dwellings. The corpse of a young child clung to the skirts of its dead mother by the village well.

Fear gripped her; Sorcha raced for the crude stone castle where she had lived with her family, her legs trembling. "Mother! Father!" she cried. She flew into the castle and stumbled over corpses in the doorway. Scrambling to her feet, she backed against the wall, staring at her brothers. Her heart pounded in her ears. "Mother! Father!" Her voice was shrill. She ran towards the armoury.

The Chieftain of Clan Cuccurullo lay just inside the armoury; his life-bonded lay nearby, her fingers still grasping the pommel of her sword. Sorcha knelt between the two bodies. "Mother," she croaked, "Father."

Somehow, she got to her feet and made her way outside. She wandered through the village, hoping to find someone who could tell her what had happened.

Sorcha followed the sound of keening to the Chieftain's stables, where she discovered a girl, not older than twelve, crouching in one of the empty stalls. Kneeling by the child, she brushed the hair back from the small face. "What happened?" she asked as gently as she could.

The girl shook her head. Sorcha took her by the shoulders and gave her a rough shake. "Tell me!"

"All gone," the girl gasped. "They're all gone."

"Who?"

"Everyone . . . the Clan . . ."

Sorcha fell back against the side of the stall. "The Clan?"

The girl nodded. "They killed everyone."

"Who did?"

The girl looked at Sorcha for the first time. "Outlanders."

Sorcha found horses for them, and they rode for the next village, which belonged to Clan Tailtiu. It, too, had been raided, buildings burned, inhabitants killed. She found more survivors, two young men who had been tending cattle on the hillside. They could only tell her that Outlanders were responsible.

Sorcha rode through the villages, gathering survivors of that black raid, men, women, and children from all the Seven Clans.

"Who were they?" she asked, when they had found the last of the living and had made camp.

Fergal of Clan Breslach shrugged broad shoulders. "Outlanders," he replied. "From the south."

"Where did they go?"

"When they'd finished their killing and burning," replied Bronagh of Clan Sobairche, "they headed south again."

"Back to their own lands?" Sorcha said. "Why? Why come here if it wasn't to take our lands? They even left most of the cattle."

"Perhaps," ventured old Suibne of Clan Machtan, "they wished to destroy the Clans and nothing more."

"They may have wished it," Sorcha said, clenching her fists and looking around at the fifty survivors of the Seven Clans, "but they did not succeed."

They had raided the village armouries, and now all who were fit enough bore arms. Sorcha rode at the head of her small army upon a red chestnut stallion as they swept into the Outlanders' territories to the south. Village after village fell beneath their swords and their Power. Troops came against them, but the Clan warriors, driven by fury, slaughtered them. Sorcha stayed in the thick of the battle, using her sword and her Power equally. Those they did not kill, she interrogated, demanding the name of the lord who had sent troops into the Clan Lands. When at last she learnt it, she aimed her army towards his territory as an arrow.

The lord had taken refuge in his castle. Sorcha and her warriors laid siege to it and the surrounding villages. When they had done, the earth was scorched for leagues around and the lord was dead.

Sorcha caught one of the soldiers trying to escape. She rode him down, pinning him against the remains of a building with her horse. "Please," the man begged, "don't kill me! I was only following orders."

Sorcha hesitated, then put up her sword. The man sagged against the wall, gasping. "Thank you, my Lady."

"Don't thank me yet," Sorcha said. She raised her hand and flicked a bolt of energy at the soldier. He cried out as the bolt seared into his flesh. "Who . . . are you?" he panted, sinking to the ground.

A cold smile touched Sorcha's lips. "I . . . am the Flame."

© Catherine Thompson, 2002. All rights reserved.

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