Báirseach- the Midding Gate Read online

  Báirseach

  The Midding Gate

  V B Gilbert

  Contents

  Glossary

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Reds of Summer - The Thrive Series

  Blues of Winter - The Thrive Series

  Hunters of Spring - The Thrive Series

  Other books by VB Gilbert

  © 2019 VB Gilbert

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover by Lucidity Design

  Original Chapter Art: C.A. Farelli

  Editing by: Michelle Hoffman

  Created with Vellum

  To my Alpha readers

  Thank you for loving Onyx

  A Witch without powers

  A Dragon Master

  The dragons call her Báirseach — Dragon Witch

  Sage’s world is Covens, dragons, and magic. She has two of these three. She’s from a loving family, an accepting coven, and she has a job tending dragons. But magic? That has always eluded her.

  At twenty-seven years old, she has accepted her life as a Mundane. Until Samhain — two accidental bindings and a botched spell placed by her ex-boyfriend change not just her place in the coven, but that of all other Mundanes as well.

  Now, she navigates the betrayal of her ex, two new bondmates, and a Warlock full of disdain for all things Mundane. All while hatching the dragon eggs and coming to terms with the separation from her family and the coven.

  Sage will be tested through volcanic fire and enchanted ice as she and her company travel from the Midding Gate to Firehaven.

  Who will she be when she returns?

  Will she be accepted?

  All she wants is to be normal — a Witch with magic.

  Glossary

  Báirseach — dragon witch

  Midding — v. intr. feeling the tranquil pleasure of being near a gathering but not quite in it — hovering on the perimeter of a campfire, chatting outside a party while others dance inside — feeling blissfully invisible yet still fully included, safe in the knowledge that everyone is together and everyone is okay, with all the thrill of being there without the burden of having to be.

  Dia duit —“May God be with you”

  Mo Chroí — my heart

  Oíche Shamhna Shona Daoibh (EE-hyeh HOW-nuh HUN-uh DEE-iv) — Happy Samhain Eve (to more than one person)

  Oíche Shamhna Shona Duit (EE-hyeh HOW-nuh HUN-uh ditch*) — Happy Samhain Eve to one person *alternate gwitch

  Samhain is pronounced SOW-in, with the first syllable rhyming with “cow”

  Shamna — Samhain eve

  Slán go fóill: Pronounced "slawn guh-foyl." — This is a way to say goodbye to someone that translates to "safety for a while" or something like, "hope to see you soon" or "I can't wait to see you again!"

  1

  Have you ever wished you had magical powers? Perhaps to be invisible, or to halt time, or just to unlock the front door when your hands are full of groceries?

  Me, too.

  I live in Coven Lámhach. Magic is everywhere. Walking down the street, shopping in the market, in the classrooms at school — everyone doing small and large twists of the wrist, a flick of the finger, a larger forearm sweep — everyone doing a beautiful dance.

  A dance I’m invited to, a dance I can participate in, but never quite being in rhythm. A weed amongst the flowers. A duck amongst the swans. That’s me, a Mundane amongst the Witches.

  I remember the exact moment I realized I didn’t have magic.

  Mam asked me to clean up some milk I had spilled carrying my cup from the kitchen to the dining room. I spread my hand, then did a curl of my fingers to the right. Just as I’d been taught. Just as I’d been trying to do since before I could remember. Spread. Curl. Spread. Curl. Spread . . . On the third try, Mam placed a hand around mine and closed my hand inside hers.

  We stood there quiet for several long moments, and then Mam gave a little hitch in her breath and in a whisper told me, “Go to the chest in my room. There are several towels in there. Pick the one you like best. Okay?”

  I recall peering up at her and wondering why she was standing with her eyes closed and her mouth pinched like she was in pain. She had to urge me on, “Go on, Sage. Quickly now.”

  At the very bottom of the chest was a little stack of pretty, white towels. They were so fluffy and felt soothing in my hand. When I returned to the spill, Mam knelt beside me and showed me how to sop up the liquid from the floor. How to rinse and wring out the towel. How to clean the floor with a little bit of coconut and lemon oil, then to wipe it with water. She showed me how to wash the towel and let me pick a spot to hang it to dry.

  The steps and the motions were soothing for me. It was the first accomplishment I was proud of. It was also the first time I recall knowing my mam was crying about me. I knew that it wasn’t the result of the fumes from the onions she was dicing.

  I was four years old.

  Despite the evidence — or lack thereof — of magical skill, I was sent to school to learn all the intricacies of spells and hexes. I passed from class to class, year after year. I received praise for my casting form. High grades for recitation and pronunciation. The only problem was — my spells never worked.

  I was encouraged to continue my studies, and Mam and Da taught me the Mundane ways of fire-making, cleaning, and . . . living. There was a constant refrain, “You contribute in other ways to the coven, Sage.”

  The light of the day diffuses as a mist rolls in, and I glance at the mountains to the north. Our coven inhabits the pasture land of Lámhach. It encompasses the south side of the peaks, from the sea on the west to the Midding on the east. The members that live beyond the village raise livestock, hunt wild game, or fish.

  South of us, is the wooded land of Craobhan. The trees are lush and contain thousands of varieties of plants. The coven there primarily works with plants and excels at building and woodcraft. I visited when I was a child and fell in love with the abodes sheltered within the boughs of the sturdiest oaks.

  Farriage, with its hot and dry, desert lands, is furthest from my coven. The members are fire workers — blacksmiths, crafters of fascinating fireworks, and the like. I have never traveled that far south, but I’ve heard it’s beautiful in its own barren way, full of exotic animals.

  Lámhach, where I live, is mainly pasture land with hillocks and inclines l
eading into the mountains. The coven are merchants and craftsmen in textiles and gemstones. There are those with herds of sheep and cattle, which are our main source of wool and food.

  The Midding, where I work, is separated from the covens by a stone fence that spans from the sea to the mountains. Each coven has access to this area. It is the entry to the dragon lands.

  I like to watch the goings-on in town on my work breaks. I like the colorful wagons when merchants bring their wares for trade. The Enforcers, tasked with upholding justice, come in every now and then for supplies, straight-backed and serious with their blue cloaks.

  I watch — from afar. The dragon grounds are just close enough for me. I can enjoy the hustle and bustle of Lámhach, without feeling too crowded.

  With a contented sigh, I pull my leather cloak closed, fastening it against the cool breeze that’s blowing a light mist across the practice grounds. Leaning against the Midding Gate, I twist the rings on my fingers and watch the newest group of youngsters making river rocks disappear and reappear in the palms of their hands.

  Pushing off the rough timber of the gate, I return to my chore of tending the fire.

  The stables are at the end of a rough, cobbled path and are much larger than the horses' stables in the village. The walls are stone, and as I approach, the half wall that marks the entry allows me a glimpse of my mentor making preparations for our upcoming trip within the large aisle of the stable.

  I load one of my arms with firewood, then grab the long iron pole to move the burnt logs and feed the new wood into the center of the huge furnace. The blaze must stay lit for seven more days. We have seven days before our move to Firehaven and the hatching.

  The hatchlings can only emerge within the lava pools of Firehaven. The extreme heat is essential for the wyrms’ scales to solidify. Five weeks immersed in the boiling, thick heat of the lava accelerates their growth, and their thick, muscled legs form, aiding in their move to the hot springs. Then there is another three months as each wyrm forms thick leathery wings, and near-impenetrable scales.

  If I do my job well — and I am damn good at it — I will return with three full-grown black dragons for the coven. I'm allowed to keep a mating pair until two or three eggs are produced. The pair then returns to the dragon lands after the eggs are laid.

  An accord was made ages ago with the creatures. Master Riordan says that the dragons allowed this due to the precarious conditions of the volcano that feeds the lava pools.

  Every three years at Midsummer, will be the Fair and Bewitching contest. Three trials of combat spells, with one champion winning a dragon.

  Then the cycle begins again. We tend to the eggs, and watch over their hatching and growth as dragonlings, the first year. The next two years are spent tending to the dragons, until they reach maturity. If we’re lucky, the mating pair will gift us with three eggs before flying to the dragon lands. Then the Fair occurs again, and a champion wins a dragon.

  Three years per cycle; this is my fifth since I was twelve and failed my sixth and last attempt at magic. That year I was sent across the Midding Gate to intern with Master Riordan. The coven did not shun me in any way. They gave me a job, a way to contribute.

  I shut the furnace, walk around the half wall, and grab a small bale of hay. Making a new dry nest with it, I move the rough matte-black eggs a little closer to the brick warming wall and clean out the muddy wet hay from last week.

  This is my life as a Mundane. It's not a bad life working this side of the Midding Gate. I have good friends, parents who are proud of me, a boyfriend, and my dragons.

  But, sometimes, I yearn to be normal. I wish for magic.

  “Sage! Come on, dinner is almost ready,” my mam, Ivy, calls from the other side of the stone border. My parents have planned a farewell feast for me. Tonight begins Samhain. Early tomorrow, the Dragon Master and I will be embarking on the two-day journey to the lava pools of Firehaven.

  She’s caught me as I'm exiting the stables, tired and dirty from a full day’s work. I wave a hand in acknowledgment, grab my cloak off the hook, and head to my back door where the wash trough has been set up. Working the fire is hot, sweaty work, and I end up covered in soot and ash by the end of the day.

  Grabbing a bucket, I fill it with water then duck behind the brick wall that contains my bathing stall. Quickly stripping, I secure the bucket to a hook and release my black hair from its band. The spring-fed water is cool and refreshing, as I do my best to at least look presentable.

  Satisfied with my efforts, I slip into my small cottage via a door on the side of my shower. I’ve been within the heat of the egg-incubating room all day, but it’s almost winter, so I grab a thick, black sweater-dress, socks, and boots to fight off the chill.

  Shrugging into my leather cloak, I don’t bother going through the Midding Gate to get to my parents' home. Years ago, we made wood steps that allow me to step over the stone border with ease. From there, it’s an easy stroll along the cobblestone path through the village to Mam’s and Da’s bungalow behind their crystal shop.

  Mam has her lanterns out to ward off malignant spirits that might be lurking tonight. Harvest has ended, and she’s used the last of the pumpkins and carved frightful faces on them.

  I pat the one closest to the front door, whispering, “Keep them safe while I’m gone.”

  With a sharp rap on the heavy wood door, I push through and enter the warmth of my childhood home. Flames flicker in the stone fireplace, casting a buttery yellow light across the overstuffed, floral furniture in the sitting room. A brighter light gleams from the kitchen at the back of the house.

  I kick off my boots and place my cloak on a hook before following the tempting smells of fresh-baked bread, roast, and pumpkin pie.

  “Oíche Shamhna Shona Daoibh,” I greet my parents with a traditional Samhain Eve greeting.

  Da rises from his seat at the table, smiling and spreading his arms wide for a hug.

  “Oíche Shamhna Shona Duit, love.” He settles me in the seat beside him as Mam places a bowl of salad on the table and sits across from me.

  “Oíche Shamhna Shona Duit, Sage. Now, Ciaran can’t make dinner, but he’ll be by for dessert. He seemed very eager to see you before you left.” With a twinkle in her eye, she beams at me. “I think tonight’s the night, Sage. Perhaps a ring and a proposal before you leave?”

  I sneak a peek at Da, who is frowning and doesn’t seem as excited as Mam, before speaking, “Oh, I don’t know. He’s been . . . distant lately. Ciaran claims it’s his advanced potion-making class. That he’s been having to do extra tutoring for this group, but he’s been different. Curt and almost angry at me.”

  “Surely, not angry?” Mam serves me a slice of roast then passes the rolls my way. “What would he have to be angry about?”

  “You know why, Mam. We’ve been seeing each other — more off than on — for the last two years, and I think. . . I feel like he only asked me out to try to have an edge on getting a dragon.”

  I wave my knife in a circle over the butter crock in a learned movement from childhood. If I had even the most basic magic, that would have buttered my roll. But alas, I only look silly and use the knife to scoop a dab of honey butter and spread the creamy goodness over my bread.

  “I have no control over who wins the Fair contest or a dragon. I just tend to the eggs, make sure the hatchlings survive, and bring them back when they are almost grown dragons. It’s not like I can influence the coven council members in any way.”

  “Well, then,” my da grumps, “perhaps you’ll be interested in meeting Padraig’s son now?” That’s Da’s best friend, and since Padraig’s wife passed, they have been making plans to move to Lámhach. “He’s an Enforcer, you know. He comes through the village often. You used to play together when you were younger. Or you might even be interested in young Murphy. Now there’s a good lad.”

  Setting thoughts of men away, for now, I humor my da, “Perhaps. But you know the requirements of my job. I’
m gone from Samhain to the Vernal Equinox.”

  “Still —” Da is cut off when Mam tosses a roll at him.

  “Eoin, leave the girl be. She’ll find her mate soon enough.”

  We finish our meal, conversing about my coming trip, my best friend Rosemary’s coming nuptials with Aidan — our blacksmith, and whether or not I’ll be able to make a short trip home for the Winter Solstice.

  In the back of my mind, though, I wonder about Ciaran. I really hope he’s not proposing. His distant behavior these last few months have opened my eyes to the fact that I don’t love him. He makes me laugh, and he’s good company most of the time. But the fact is, I don’t miss him when I’m gone. I am just as content with my life whether or not we interact.

  It’s not a good thing when you don’t miss your boyfriend, is it?

  2

  I’m washing the last of our dirty dishes when Ciaran arrives. I’m not sure what held him up. He missed dinner, and dessert as well.

  His lips twitch up on one side as he observes me washing Mam’s china by hand. He thinks it’s quaint that I do everything the ‘hard way’ without any magic. As if I had a choice.